Ivan, and The Origin Of All Villainy
by Schrodinger's Cate
Summary: When one deals drugs, puts up with a Nazi, and is suddenly confronted by a runaway hero, well, why not write it all down in a whimsical journal? -A narrative written by Ivan himself, confronting issues of life, and not just his own. Set in Atlanta, and plotted in a hilariously satirical yet realistic way, offering contrasts on familiar characters never imagined before-
1. Chapter 1: Nobody Said It Was Easy

**A/N: Hello, yes! This is a story I have been wanting to release for a while, but with problems on what was my main account (MuchFanVeryFic), I could not. Any how, this is a gift fic for one of my friends, centered around RusAme. It is written from Ivan's point of view, as a journal by him, and offers a unique, and completely new contrast to the pairing and characters.**

 **The first chapter is a bit odd, and for that I apologize, but have no fear, it isn't too bad, I've been told (I'm uploading a second chapter tonight, so it's fine, I'm sure). My update schedule for this story will be once, maybe twice a week. I will try my hardest to stay to this schedule, and I most certainly will not drop this story all together.**

 **Thank you all for reading, enjoy~**

 _ **Chapter 1: Nobody Said It Was Easy...**_

Think back to when you were but a wee little thing, a mere child... Think about your favorite words.

I think of words like lolligag, viola, batfish, scarf. There's no real reason, it's just what comes to mind. Those words caught my simple child mind, twisting and turning and forming meanings that I didn't really understand, nor thought about enough _to_ understand. Lolligag was some sort of weird lollipop (allow me to stop that thought train where it is...), viola summoned up images of beautiful people with long hair, batfish was a misfit hero who everyone loved, even when he messed up, and scarf was just some warm comfort in the back of my fuzzy mind.

Whenever I see pickled eggs, I'm still reminded of that childhood thought: 'Those things look a lot like those animal babies they preserve in jars... Only more pink.' I didn't say this sinisterly, I never really thought about the moral questions posed by animal babies suspended in glass, because that is all they were to, just things behind glass, like fish in an aquarium. I much rather focus on live animal babies, than on those that float in some liquid that might be water, regardless of how much I doubt that fact.

Whenever your favorite show would come on, and you felt your whole world get just a little bit brighter, because surely... This one program on TV would negate any problems in your life. For the time being, anyway. That was quite long enough for me.

Then that dreaded work would be slapped right at your spot at the table, and you'd hear some authority-voice caw like a sore-throat crow, demanding you get in here and do your damned assignment, or may god have mercy otherwise! Gosh, you'd say. I've got better things to do than that assignment. Like figuring out the exact temperature of your eyeball at any given time (Which, if I correctly recall, is 94.1°F or 34.5°C, and if you'd prefer, 304.65°Kelvin). Or finding out which leaves are the best for building leaf forts (Study was... Inconclusive. Wind variable proves formidable in thwarting my scientific method). Perhaps even discovering the best branches for swinging and jumping on in the nearby forest (WARNING- DO NOT TRY! I ended up with a very broken arm and very sniffly nose).

Assignments are still frustrating. Tap, tap, tap. Pencil, you should be writing. Not gently nudging against the too-soft flesh of my cheek. Go on, get to work. Gah, you silly instrument...

There's a draft from the too-noisy window next to my desk. Gah, how distracting, I need still and quiet. The drab walls of this small place are devouring my precious light. Gah, I pay for that, you greedy panels of plywood or whatnot. I'm no wall-engineer, so I wouldn't know what they are made of. This chair is very, very uncomfortable on my butt. Gah, me! What was I thinking? Never trade aesthetic over comfort... Gosh, recollections of my childhood feel so distant, but so warm, like a blanket wrapped securely around my too-large body.

I don't say that in some self-hate way, no, I've grown past that stage. I'm just stating plain observation. Facts, if you will. My legs are just a little bit too long, my midsection falling into that category as well. Feet too big, hands too wide. Face too soft, eyes too... Weird. And all of these things, aside from the eyes (God forbid), are maybe just a little too 'round'. But my momma told me that I'm just perfect the way I am. My cheeks are fluffy like a hamster's, feet long like a rabbit's (they really aren't _that_ long...), belly round like a Guinea pig's, legs long like a... I can't remember that comparison. Regardless, I think momma compared me to various species of rodent one too many times. However, my eyes... She said my eyes were like snakes coiled in mystery. I could never figure out what that meant.

I pondered exactly what the phrase could refer to as I strolled down the snow dusted pavement, headed to the local ABC store, located on Shady Corner.

Snakes... Coiled in mystery? Hadn't she just visually dissected various parts of my body, stating that they were like various rodent body parts? Rodents that snakes would gladly latch onto and gorge upon? Momma may have had a few screws loose.

Then again, I think I might too.

I love my eyes, though in such a morbid fashion, I could always imagine what it would be like to have them spoon-scooped from their crevices in my skull. And about how much I would hate that. My poor violet orbs stolen away from me, my snakes chopped into little no longer mysterious pieces.

Pushing open the door, I was greeted with the familiar dingaling of the door bell hung in such a peculiar place. It was strung up to the roof, attracted to the door by a string. Looking at it, I saw how it worked for the first time, which is odd considering that this isn't anywhere close to being my first time in this crooked shop. The door would push open, dropping the bells and ringing them, then close, and ring them some more. I thought to myself, 'I hope no one steals those lovely things.' Shame on me.

My hair... Momma never said anything about my hair. Pops (I only called him this when I tried to annoy him, my father) would give me a stolid look and ruffle my locks. Nana, on the other hand, would go to, in my opinion, stupid lengths to convince my parents to let me grow my hair out long. No, pops would say, slamming his fist down on the table because this has got to be the trillion and some odd number-th time Nana had mentioned my hair, and oh, how it'd look so good long, and oh, how I'd be the prettiest boy to have ever lived. My son shouldn't be the prettiest boy that ever lived, my old man would snap. His hair will stay as it is, or may god have mercy otherwise!

The woman behind the counter, she's a poor little thing. Probably the tiniest woman I've ever seen. I'm a whole four or five heads taller, and yes, I mean the head on my shoulders, thank you. Her skin is too tight on her bones, her eyes sunken into her skull like lost treasure ships, surely from too many late-night drug escapades. Somehow, her dark hair still gleams with youth and maintains a glowing luster that even I envy. It was all too sad to me that she was a godless prostitute on her days off, though I often wonder what it would be like to live such a life. She definitely had the body for the job, I could tell from my towering disposition that her curves were in all the right places, and her smile wasn't too yellowed from cigarettes. My body on the other hand... I just really don't think I'd make a good prostitute. Honestly, I thought to myself as I browsed the aisles despite knowing damn well exactly what I wanted, I would probably draw a crowd of pedophiles. My face is just too soft. If you subtract the rest of my body, you know, all the other parts that actually went through puberty like they were meant to, I've got a chubby cheeked kid face, as much as I hate it. Anyway, the last thing I want in my prostitute adventure is a bunch of people who actually think they can change the legal consensual age from 18 to 8 lining up at my prostitute door, ready to jerk it to my damned baby face. The thought sends tremendous tremors down my spine, which would probably feel like earthquakes to the tiny woman behind the counter. I discard the idea of being a prostitute all together.

Dad died when I was 12. He was shot at near point blank range with a shot gun, under context that was never explained to me. He was just dead, and he looked a lot like Swiss cheese. Bloody, visceral Swiss cheese. I asked momma, "Is that how they make Swiss cheese? By shoottin' it with a shotty, like they did daddie?" An innocent enough question, I was genuinely curious. She took off from her chair, sobbing into her hands, surely going to fondle one of the old man's stinky shoes. I felt bad, that I can assure you. But I didn't understand love at the time, and I still don't really get it. It's just not my profession. I'm much better at things such as measuring the temperature of human eyeballs without actually gouging out any of the sight-seeing organs. Nana sighed, and hugged me close when I cried because I had hurt momma, whispering in my ear, "Don't be so insensitive, ya lil shit." I loved Nana. Not only because she knew just what to say, but also because she let me make my own hair choices. Now that dad was gone, I didn't have to keep it so damn short. It could grow or be cut as I pleased. Momma never commented. Nana would braid it real pretty, and I would go off to school and brag to my friends. They would look at my hair style with google-eyes, then run home to their own mommas, demanding that their hair be allowed to grow, and eventually be braided. Momma never commented on my hair, but she sure did gripe to Nana when the mothers of my friends would call her and bitch about their boys wanting girl hair cuts because of me. Momma would always let them speak, remaining completely silent until they spat out every last closed minded, ignorant, and flat out daft comment they could. Then she'd say something like, "Go back to sucking those wrinkled cocks for that fresh dollar you crave, Beth." And slam the phone on the receiver. I would always giggle, and she would flash me a glare, but I knew she wasn't mad.

After finally drab bling through line after line of cheap alcohols, and maybe a few snacks, I finally got to where I needed to go. Unfortunately... I was a tad bit late. This other man, what with his daring blue eyes and all too flamboyant blond hair, snatched up the very last bottle of my preferred drink, right before my eyes. I made no spectacle of it, but I could tell that this man was waiting for me to. Not one to give in to other's will so easily, I pretended to inspect another bottle of some suspiciously off colored drink by some name I never could hope to replicate. My agitator snorted, going to check out, and leaving promptly after. Sighing as the door dingalinged shut, I too approached the counter, but with nothing to buy.

"He got the last one?" The small woman asked, dragging her wrist across her nose as some sort of human tissue.

"Yep." I said, rooting through my wallet.

Producing a twenty and a ten, I slapped them on the table. "Drug money." I explained, meeting her confused stare. "So you can spend your actual money on food."

The woman nodded, knowing damn well that I had no more money to spare than the next shambling idiot that happened to stumble into this place. She easily pocketed the cash, and I wondered if that would even buy enough of whatever drug she used to get high. It didn't matter, I knew it secured me a bottle of what I craved next time I came.

I couldn't think of anymore childhood goodness on my way home. I was hungry, and irritated, and... that bottle had ended up on the door step to my obscure apartment room. The very one that had been taken from me earlier. By that bold man who looked at me with that sneer, then left without a word. Attached to it, a note, which appeared to be scribbled on. I assumed that these scribbles were meant to be words, but I wouldn't know for sure. The bottle appeared to have been tampered with, the little lid mechanism had been opened... A small drink had been taken from it, I concluded.

Not one of wasteful nature, I toted the bottle inside, and crunched on some cheap noodle bricks I couldn't be bothered to actually cook. After finishing my purposely dry meal, I gazed longingly at the bottle, thinking to myself, "well, I am awful thirsty after all."  
After the first ten gulps, I noticed something odd. My vision was a tad blurrier than expected. Hopefully it was my liver giving out, because rent was due the next day and I sure as hell didn't have that. Praying to whoever might be tuning into my pitiful channel, I took a good few more swigs, burning my throat in such a pleasant manner, and, much to my surprise, slowing my world down to a crawl. I faintly recall my head knocking against something a bit too solid for my taste, but I didn't linger on that thought for too long. No, what I wanted to know was exactly what the hell I had been drugged with! Because goodness, this was nice. It wasn't anything like speed, which I had no taste for, nor was it especially comparable to hemp. It was simple, just... Slow. I could hear my heart thud like a thunder in my chest, sending trails of lighting through my body. The voice in my head echoed gently off the edges of my mind, and the dust trailing through the air swirled with a beautiful magnificence. Any anger that had lingered from earlier vanished, as did my ability to move. I wasn't sure whether I had actually lost my motor skills, or my desire to put forth effort, and I quite frankly didn't care. A far more pressing matter had brought itself up: How to perfect the leaf fort.

Good thing I'd locked my door, anyway, because if anyone just so happened to walk through that doorway and saw me in such a state, well, I was scared that would steal whatever it was I'd been given.

...  
I heard the door open. It didn't really register, until the adamant exclamations plowed through my previously silent room. I recall phrases such as, "What the ass?!" And after a few footsteps, "-Drank half of it?! Fucki-" and something that may have been "That was half an elephant tranquilizer, Jesus Christ, I think I just killed him!"

"No, no..." The words ambled out of my mouth. "I am alive..."

Following my announcement, a sigh of relief. And that was when it hit me: this guy might be stealing my precious things! Along with that, he might be stealing me, which was a less pressing matter. I felt my body hoisted up from under the arms, and the other's stranded groans amused me. "Can't handle big boy, eh?" I slurred, snickering at the name I'd used for myself. I believe it was something some football player and his gang of goody-two-shoes called me, before I cracked his nose and busted his jaw.

Sadly, I got no response. I was, instead, draped across my too-big bed, in nothing short of a compromising position. I didn't mind, and neither did the other. But suddenly, I DID mind. While this blond headed bozo was muttering something about a bad idea, I had realized that this fellow was probably some creepy pedo just waiting for me to slip into a coma, and then take advantage of my baby face. Bile had already collected in the back of my throat, and I considered projectile vomiting on this person if it came to it. For now, I would use my physical advantage. I could move, I discovered, and this disgusting pedophile who so audaciously entered my prostitute residence hoping for some incredibly strange and not quite legitimate underage sex was just within striking range.

Rightfully, I let my arm do its job, striking out with as much force as I could muster. Under normal circumstances, this force would be bone cracking, but in this situation, my arm moved the complete total of an inch. Well, that plan hadn't gone over so well. There as always the less pleasant plan b, I supposed.

Before I could get right down to it, though, a hand ruffled through my hair in an uncomfortably similar way to how my father had ruffled my pale silver tufts.

"Yeah," said the invader. "No more of this for Mr. Big boy." He took my new found pride and joy, much to my dismay. I stared at him, trying to muster a glare of disapproval. This dirty child molester had taken my drink, and dammit, I wanted it back! I would be extremely pissed if he took my superficial virginity with him too, this damnable man. Apparently all I was doing was just staring, because I could tell how unsettled he was, placing something else where my drugged bottle had once stood, then backing up, keeping his gaze settled on me to make sure I didn't go weeping angel on him.

"Uh..." He scooted to the door, opening it slightly behind him. "Yeah, bye." And with that, he was gone. I thought about getting up and locking the door, but I decided that a nap sounded like a far better idea on this drowsy Saturday evening.  
...


	2. Chapter 2: A Good Pounding

A/N: Sorry for the short length. The way I have the chapters mentally separated, it just happens.

Enjoy~

Chapter 2: A Good Pounding

I awoke the next morning to something licking and nibbling on my upper lip. The first thought in my head was something like, 'man I wish I had a grapefruit.' Followed up by a series of thoughts pertaining to whether or not I actually I liked grapefruits, and why they were even called such in the first place.

My next thought focused on the absolutely horrid pounding that drummed around my skull. A dragon had awoken in my head, and it was liberally pissed off. Crashing and bashing, it rounded my thoughts in destruction.

"Siberia." I felt the groan gladly exit my mouth. "Cut it out."

Siberia purred, her peculiar method to waking me had stopped as I requested. 'I'm hungry,' she had been saying. "I have a massive headache," I replied. 'Too bad,' she retorted, heartless.

It was a dawn not too long ago, only a few years, when my room mate had still been alive. There was a scratching at my door, the most irritating noise. "What," I said, "the hell is that." My room mate, an elderly lady, glared my way. "Language." She scolded, rising from her spot on the couch. Her creaky bones wheezed as her old body made its way to the door, shoe in hand to defend the apartment. I stood in the background, silently cheering on my hero. The door creaked open, revealing none other than a pesky, too-cute kitten. I had to stop the crazy woman from batting the poor creature half to death, as it was only her nature to go on the offensive before all else. Cradling the tiny creature, I adopted her, making the worst decision of my entire life.

And now, as I struggled to stand and follow my queen's command, a few things dawned on me: I was not draped over my bed. The bottle of liquor I had been drinking the night before was no more than a puddle on my floor; it had not been taken. There was nothing on my nightstand. My door was locked.  
More importantly, my intestines had begun to throb. I had an infestation of dragons in my body. And that good sleepy feeling I always got when I woke up didn't last. Neither did my upright position.

Oh. Gosh.

...

When I was younger, I broke my arm. It was a few months after Pops kicked the shot gun. I was angry at the world. My mom had turned into a reclusive drunkard, who screamed at the dog to shut his stupid trap, who shattered her mother's favorite China, who shoved me out of the house so that she could drink her whiskey in peace.

I grew up in the "Dark Corner" of South Carolina. Called such because it was full of inbred murderers who married their nearest cousins and hissed at the sight of any technology beyond a horse drawn buggy. I am, thankfully, not one of these people, not by blood anyhow. I am of Russo-Slavic descent, and somehow, my family ended up in the obscure bastard child of the palmetto state. Perhaps alcohol so purely flows through my bloodline, my ancestors couldn't handle prohibition, therefore hiking up into the moonshine laden hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It's my best guess on the matter.  
It was a late day, upon those same mountains, that I had an accident. Fall had arrived. The bodies of fallen leaves piled up on the ground, scarring those leaves that remained steadfast on their branches. I, being quite the pretentious youngster that I was, had decided to hunt deer. With nothing but my bare hands, I also decided.

"Shotguns are for people who make Swiss cheese!" I declared, tromping into the woods.

Off I went, scoring a path through thick leaf litter, observing the yellows and browns and reds with a meticulous pair of snakes. I was searching for tracks. When the sun had just begun to set, found some. They were long and deep, surely meaning that I had found the biggest buck to have ever lived. "Gotta get into a tree," I said. "Gotta find out the deer!"

Of course, twelve year olds are easily distracted. As soon as I discovered how fun jumping on the branches of trees were, I abandoned the idea of taking down a filthy, stupid old deer. I'd find an unlucky branch, swing on it, yank it around, eventually break it, then rinse and repeat. Until I was met with the challenge of a perfect branch, just a little bit too high above my head. Oh yes, this long, unscarred scepter of pure wood was my next target.

Up the chosen tree I went, digging my fingernails, which were in desperate need of a trim, into the bark of the poor forest soul. Finally, after such a struggle, I reached my target. And there I went, thoughtlessly having what equated to a dance break party on this limp tree branch. Emphasis on the 'break'.

Only after about thirty seconds of abuse, the branch broke beneath my feet, and down I went, the mighty king falling to his mighty death. I landed with a sharp crack, and a pause of silence. My brain asked my arm, "What... Was that?"

"... Nothing..." My arm lied.

"I can tell you're lying. Cough it up before I disown you." My brain threatened.

And under all the pressure of my body and my brain, my arm finally snapped.

I was caterwauling within five seconds. That's it, I've done it this time. If these leaves don't strangle me, or this arm doesn't kill me, I know momma will.  
But before I could beg the leaves to end my misery, a neighbor was rushing over. He had probably been after me for a while now, only just having caught up to me. I would've guessed that he as originally going to bitch about me 'intruding on HIS property, dammit! Curse you commie bastards, and your witchcraftery!' Now that I was screaming and begging for death, he couldn't cuss me out to the extent that he desired. Instead, he had to carry me back to my house, to my drunk mother, to my elderly Nana, and cuss them out instead.

We waited until Bubba wrapped up his rant, and then I was packed in the car, hurriedly driven to the family trusted physician, who was only an hour away. As I came to find out, my break was absolutely horrendous. I had bits of splintered bone puncturing the skin, and I was in 'deep shit, boy,' as my mother had told me.

I don't remember much after that, honestly. Sad to say, the clearest recollections are of the sickly scent of blood, and the nauseous taste of anesthesia. It is a taste I could compare to food poisoning.

I say this because, two weeks ago to the day, I was poisoned. Only two weeks ago, I experienced what wasn't real, I curled in on myself and pleaded for my blood to finally curdle. I saw broken bones and smashed bottles. I felt teeth across my skin, and my ears ached from the screaming that plagued them. Then, it faded with the next dawn. Then, I heard a knock on my door.

And now, today, at 1:34 Ante Meridian, I was staring at the popcorn ceiling, gazing at the grey walls, drinking in the sweet moonlight. Today, at 1:35 Ante Meridian, I was listening to the snoring of cars and people alike, playing voices and songs in my head, wishing for something I can't quite imagine. Today, at 1:36 Ante Meridian, I'm awake, and I'm writing. Because, just a day short of two weeks ago,

I think was poisoned again.


	3. Chapter 3: Alfredo

**A/N: I don't have much to say for this chapter, aside from a thank you to those who followed, and the one person who reviewed! It might sound silly to thank you all for reading and following and reviewing, especially such a small number, but I still love that people like what I do, regardless of the amount. Anyway, thank you, seriously! It might seem meager, but it means more than enough to me.**

 **PS: if anyone notices any mistakes, please point them out. I don't catch everything in editing, I'm afraid...**

 **Enjoy~**

 _ **Chapter 3: Alfredo**_

As far as my family was concerned, it was pure tradition for anyone born in our centuries old home to die there. I rejected this expectation, as I rejected most of my family's ancient values. No, I would not join in their moonshine making, nor would I participate in their Christmas morning church attendance. It was my job to be the black sheep of the family, and I assumed the role like a fish assumes swimming. I never wanted to anger anyone, but, like the fish, it was my natural way of being.

When Nana died after taking a tumble down the basement stairs, a new urgency erupted in me: it was time to spread my wings and leave the death trap of a nest. I had no more of a reason to stay behind, as the person who stood as my parental figure for the previous 6 1/2 years had finally left me alone with my mental mother. By the time I was 18 1/2, Momma had come to look more like a meth addict than a mom. She would scramble through the halls of the old house, muttering things I couldn't make out, then go back into hiding in her stuffy room. I was positive that she had been keeping part of my father's decayed corpse in there, as I discovered that his old shoes had been tossed out. However, I wasn't about to investigate into whether or not my mother was into necrophilia. I planted one pitiful kiss on her cheek, wished her well, then took her car.

I drove until I was out of gas. It was a tremendously idiotic action, in retrospect, especially considering where I ended up. I was in the depths of the ghettos outside of Atlanta, Georgia. I was just a 19 year old white-kid, as far as anyone else was concerned. But I didn't let the surrounding grimaces and dirty smirks faze me. No, this was where the car had stopped, therefore this was where I was meant to be. 'This', meaning the run down apartment complex I managed to pull into.

I got out of my momma's awkwardly tiny car, condemning it to remain where it stood for the rest of eternity. I waltzed into the main building, and much to my surprise, I received a room key. The man at the desk had given me a look, some odd gaze that told me he doubted I would last a day in this hectic city. Yes, my baby face made me seem young and vulnerable, but a life among armed inbreds and aggressive churches had made me strong. Nevertheless, I was put into a room that already had a resident; an elderly lady, hardly alive, was apparently looking for a 'roomie'. She visited the office every week to inform the front desk of this, and finally they had found someone who could fit the bill.

"Give her whatever money ya got..." The man at the front desk sighed. I was taken aback, wasn't he going to... Check ID or something? Wasn't that how it worked? "Rent is due soon, so I guess she'll have you split the cost..."

Off I went, to room 17 on the bottom floor, dragging a suitcase along that was far too small to engorge all the things I had wanted to bring along with me. All it could hold within were some clothes, my rock collection, and a few Reader's Digest magazines' much to my disappointment. To say that I had no idea what I was doing was an understatement. I had left my perfectly suitable home on the whim of escaping my self predicted death, only to end up in a place where the odds were no different.

Upon sticking my key in the door, and shoving it open with my right foot, I was struck over the head many, many times with a leopard print flip-flop. Aside from my physical assault, I was also being mentally assaulted, in the form of high pitched Spanish screeching. From my few high school Spanish classes, I managed to make out a few words- "There you are, you idiot boy" and "I should abjhetsd you gpeyht leaving me hmatwp" along with "You ghuglth crazy idiot dumbass aytwhlyf butter me squoifuhp TORTILLA!" After yelling the last word, which made as little sense to me as anything else in this oddly dreamlike day, my attacker relinquished. I hesitantly got out of my cowering position, standing up to face the woman who had unleashed her wrath upon my delicate 6' 5" body.

My confusion had no end, it seemed. Before me stood a very angry, very old, Latino woman. She wielded her repurposed flip-flop like a grand sabre, pride overflowing at its brightly colored big cat pattern inscribed. Her face was covered with scrutiny. "Who the hell are you?!" She snapped, and I felt the sudden urge to fall to my knees and plead not to be held accountable for her husband's murder.

"Ivan!" I cried, shielding my face as I saw her raise her Metal Gear surpassing weapon.

"EE-vaan?"she repeated, mood changing within a snap. She even laughed. "What an idiot! Ha, you stupid, stupid boy, do you even know how to pronounce your own name?"

I shook my head at a rather rapid pace, quickly realizing that arguing with this belligerent individual would end in my demise.

Narrowing her eyes, the flip-flop was brought back down. "Mm." She grinned. "You pick up what I lay down mighty fast, eh, EE-vaan?"

I didn't make a move. That question was a double edged sword. A positive answer would make me look cocky. A negative one would just make me look even more stupid. "Uh, uh, I don't know!"

Shaking her head, the elderly combatant hobbled away from the door, waving for me to enter. As soon as I entered the apartment, I noticed various posters taped on the wall, either featuring popular bands from before my time (along with some from a foreign country below the Mexican border), or sporting cheesy sayings framed under inspirational pictures. This, I decided, could either be my paradise, or my damnation.

"Tell me," she said, easing down onto the rather comfortable looking couch. I sat on the floor, cross legged and hunch backed, my bag resting near by. "How did you end up here?" She put on some reading glasses, grabbing a saucy-looking Cosmo magazine from the adjacent end table, and began to flip through it.

I couldn't help but cock my head in befuddlement; I had been told to do something, then had been promptly contradicted with the following action. In my pause for thought, a new weapon was thrown with deadly accuracy right at my forehead. It was the remote for the TV, which I had yet to locate. The throbbing and surely red spot dead center on my forehead was a reminder that my task was not, in fact, nullified by magazine browsing.

So, I went on to explain my Swiss cheese father, kinky drunk Momma, and loving/dead grandmother, along with the backwoods bullet slingers I somehow managed to live alongside. Then I told her how I ended up in her apartment.

The elderly Latino woman nodded, closing her magazine up. "You have a job?"

"No... I uh, just got here."

"Fair enough." She nodded. "Got any cash?"

I reached in my pocket, pulling out my wallet. I had about $400, but no idea what to do with it. The green in my hand was snatched up instantly. "I'll go get you a job." She said, pocketing my mother's money. Out the door I saw her go, and about ten minutes and some self organization later, I heard loud bashing, yelling, and eventually, moaning. It all came from the room directly above. I wondered exactly what sexual fantasy was going on, praying it had nothing to do with my roommate. About seven minutes later, there was a terrifying banging on the thick wooden door of the apartment. I thought Godzilla himself was demanding to be let in. No, it was only his female equal, the main renter of the apartment room.

I quickly let her in, stepping out of her way. "I gotchu a job, hun." She grinned, going to sit back down on the couch and continue going through her magazines.  
"Oh," I said. "That's nice. Um... Could you explain what's going upstairs?"

She glared at me over her spectacles, as of I were some nosey child. "That," she said. "Would be your job."

I remember falling over backwards, my last thoughts being, 'I now live with a Latino porn star grandma. I'm about to continue her legacy. Stalin deliver me.'  
When I woke up, I was met with red eyes. "Those hicks were right," I said, astonished. "The Devil himself did come for me."

The owner of the red eyes snorted, turning to look to Porn Star Grandma. "He's the guy? Really, Veña, HIM? He's my worst nightmare, I mean, just look at him. He looks like he could crush my head between his thighs, isn't that terrifying? You gotta be kidding."

Veña, as I supposed she was called, bared her teeth. "Keep on questioning me, and I'll feed your testicles to the stray cats."

The Devil himself winced, maneuvering around my downed self in some act of vain self preservation. "Okay, okay! Your point is taken, sheesh. Hey, freaky-thighs," Suddenly, I was in the spot light. "You know anything about drug dealing?"

With that, I was dragged into a world I had only heard of in myth: the grand world of pot. Hemp. Marijuana. The Devil's lettuce, as I prefer to call it.  
Gilbert was the devil's name, and he was a drug distributing Nazi. I was astounded by the mass of illegal and highly addictive substances he had. I asked how he came across them, and he told me, "I don't know, thigh-guy, I really don't."

One thing to know about Gilbert: he never sold anything himself. Nor did he use anything, ever. He claimed, "I don't need DRUGS to get high!" I fully believed him. He was an upbeat red-eyed white-haired German, who's voice could easily crack glass, and his laugh could bring a baby to pained tears. I hated Gilbert. He hated me. But, as we found out, we worked well together.

Gilbert would somehow procure the product, organize it, and send it my way, usually through Veña. I only sold his pot, as he told me it was a bad idea to manage more than one drug. Somehow, I was the perfect fit for the part. Out on the streets, I managed a few regulars, maybe some new comers every so often, and I did so inconspicuously. No one seemed to mind my heritage or my looks, I even felt respected, in some odd way. In return, I offered respect to anyone I could.

When I returned with my profit, half would go to Gilbert, half would stay with me- usually more than enough to support us both.

Of course, we would sneer at each other, I would always address him by the title, "Red-eyed Nazi", while he would call me, "Big-nose Communist". It was delightful, our relationship. A controlled fire, if nothing else. We could shoot as many blanks as we wanted at each other, but we knew that if we crossed our border lines, both of us would fall out.

It was one day, two weeks after I'd been poisoned, that Gilbert brought me something aside from drugs. "This," he said, shoving forward an unexpected thing. "Is Alfredo."


	4. Chapter 4: YHAHTGYHOOMP

**A/N: Early update... don't know why I'm doing this tbh. I have a bunch of already written chapters (seven, to be exact). I write a chapter usually weekly, and for how short they are ( sorry), that's a pretty slow schedule. Also, I changed the story image. Might change back, I dunno. Well, enough chatter.**

 **Enjoy~**

 ** _Chapter 4: You Have an Hour to Get Your Hand Out of My Pants_**

Alfred is my worst enemy.

He is a prep, surely the star of whatever sport he committed himself to. He sits at the middle seat of the figurative high school table I'm referencing to describe his relevance and popularity, surrounded by wonderful people and beautiful women, namely Charisma, Comedy, and Cunning. He's a saint, no doubt about it, attending church every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening. He signed a certificate, swearing to save himself for marriage, which will probably be arranged by his undoubtedly rich parents. Neither his cheek nor his jaw have ever felt the agony of raw knuckles. His wavy blond hair is a symbol of his closed minded status, while his blue eyes are clear indications that his glasses struggle to help him see the world in more than one way.

And yet, here Alfred is, standing just outside the frame of my door, right next to my other worst enemy.

You see, I was never a prep. I was the star of the literature club. I sat on the ground, under a tree, surrounded by my good friends Isolation, Insecurity, and Despair. I avoided church like the plague. I signed a certificate, swearing to save myself _from_ marriage. My knuckles have been worn at and broken, and my face has borne scars and bruises that would make a kick boxer wince. My silver hair represents my outcast mannerism, while my violet eyes tell tales that would make such good boys like Alfred turn tail and flee.

We are nothing alike, I thought to myself, as I looked over Alfred. I gave him a stare similar to the one I was given those many years ago: 'You, boy, ain't gonna last a day here.'

"Him? Really, HIM?" I turned to Gilbert, scowling. I could feel the injustice pour off of Alfred, and I smirked as I realized that Mr. Football had a massive ego. Well, Alfred thought, yeah, ME! Who else could you ever want, you ignorant drug selling heathen?!

"Yeah!" Gilbert snorted. "HIM. Get over it, Commie, you asked and I provided."

I rolled my eyes, taking my forehead in my hand to display my disappointment for all to see. "I figured you would bring me a smooth jazz stoner for a roommate. Not a... That. Your name is Alfredo?" I remembered Gilbert's odd introduction, laughing to myself as Alfredo puffed up to defend himself.  
"No, it's not! It's Alfred. I'm not a noodle."

"Oh," Gilbert leaned against Alfred. "You're a noodle all right."

Alfred nearly shoved Gilbert into the door frame, his only saving grace being my hand preventing him from denting it. My eyebrows shot up. "Oh, this puppy's got some fight to him."

Gilbert silently snarled at me for laying a hand on his pristine body, then backed up, returning to his typical composure. "Sure does."

"... Yeah." Alfred muttered, then shoved past me. He dragged a wheeled suitcase behind him, constructed from faux leather that looked fairly nice.

I watched him go, suddenly hoping that he would get gang banged within the next few weeks for disrespecting my space like that. "I'm going to ring his neck if he keeps this up." I said to Gilbert, toning down my threat level.

Gilbert suddenly got very close to me, jerking me down by my collar so that we were eye to eye. "You hurt him, Ivan, and I swear to god you'll find yourself dead in a ditch the next day."

I played a small scene in my head, in which Veña and I systematically suplexing all of these intruding stupidos. "Gilbert, I don't think you're quite the man to be making those threats to someone almost twice your size."

Gilbert didn't miss a beat. "Ivan, listen up. I'm not making threats. I'm giving you fair warning."

Right as I was about to inquire exactly what his vague words meant, the Nazi went on. "Alfred is gonna stick with you for a few months, okay? He'll be outta your hair before you know it, I'm sure you won't even know he's there half the time anyway."

Gilbert let go of my collar, and I nodded, straightening up. "Gilbert, two things."

"What?"

"First thing: I'll will glad break your hand if you do that to me again."

Gilbert snorted, but nodded nonetheless.

"Second thing: why does the whole embodiment of Alfred seem like a bad idea?"

Sighing, Gilbert pushed past me just as Alfred had. "Mind your own fucking business, you damn Communist."

"This is my apartment, therefore it _is_ my fucking business, you damn Jerry bastard!" I yelled after him, but to no avail. If Gilbert didn't want to talk, which was extraordinarily rare, then he didn't want to talk.

I found them both just a few feet within the main room, dead center of the floor. Alfred was frowning, which struck me as odd, almost hilarious. The frown disagreed with his face, it looked so out of place. It was as though someone had stapled someone else's bad mood onto his mouth.

Aside from the frowning, Alfred was also unpacking. I was shocked to find that nothing in his bag was classified as 'essential'. It was filled with things that I thought were for five year olds: comic books, action figures, coloring pads with their coloring pencils, and other things that clashed with my mature theme. I made a sound of disgust, and Gilbert cocked a brow. "To each, his own." He muttered.

After Alfred finished his silent unpacking before his audience of two, he stood, avoiding my eyes entirely. "Gilbert, come on. Let's go get the rest of my stuff." Alfred didn't wait for Gilbert, simply walking at a brisk pace right out my door. Gilbert watched him go, shook his head, then followed after.

I never heard any invitation to come with, but I assumed it was there, so I trailed behind the two. Alfred stuck to Gilbert's side once the Nazi caught up, giving me no chance of discreetly asking my numerous questions. So, I had only the indiscreet route left to travel. "Hey, Alfredo!" I yelled up the hall, seeing my target audience jump. "What's a prep like you doing here, knowing a dead beat like him?" Thrown my way were two scathingly devastating glares, which shut my mouth with a click of my teeth. Suddenly, I didn't feel like pissing either of them off anymore. Their vibe finally reached me, and it wasn't nearly as peachy as my own.

They were a good few feet ahead of me, walking in sync. I purposely hung back, knowing that while I could easily catch up to them and try to play nice, it would not be in my favor. I wasn't sure why, I just felt... Like perhaps, maybe I should give this time a chance.

Up the rickety old metal stairs we went, glad to have on shoes to protect our feet from the threat of tetanus. As I made it to the top of the flight, I caught Gilbert leaning over to whisper something to the noodle. Alfred seemed somewhat surprised, glanced back at me, then said something back to Gilbert. The Nazi shrugged, but I saw his disgusting grin. The very grin that signified his mischief.

We went on for a few more seconds, until Alfred turned to look at me, opening his mouth to say, "Uh, Ivan-"

I stopped dead in my tracks, cutting Alfred off without a word. My lips curled to form a sort of curdled smile. I stared at Gilbert's grey hoody back, ready to meet his eyes when he turned around a few seconds later. On cue, his sickening bright eyes came into view, as did his smile.

"I'm going to ring your pretty little neck, Gilbert." I said, giving the man fair warning. As soon as the words left my mouth, I was off. Gilbert wasn't slow to the draw, either, dashing as soon as I made my first step. It was clear that he was trying to be cool about this situation, but I could see the terror spread across his face just before he turned. Oh, he knew he had done it this time.

My chase was more of a gradual stalk, I would imagine that one would compare it to how the velociraptors from Jurassic park hunt. They use their environment and intelligence, waiting til the moment was right to use their full energy.

On the other hand, Gilbert was more of a Gallimimus from the same movie: not taking the time to wait until the moment was right to run. As far as he was concerned, it _was_ the right moment, to which I readily agreed.

Alfred watched us with eyes I would compare to the Icthyosaur's, an ancient marine reptile with dinner plate corneas. Gilbert, just ahead of my long legged stride, latched onto his door, jiggling the handle. I heard him curse with a passion; he had been locked out. The environment was playing into my favor, I grinned deviously. Today would be the day. Gilbert began to pound on the door. "ELIZA!" He yelled, panicked. He was glancing at me every so often, growing more frantic as I increased my pace. "OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! HURRY, OPEN THE DOOR GOD DAMMIT!"

Right as I was rearing back to sink my fist in Gilbert's skull, the door flung inwards, the Nazi toppling back into the opening. He seemed relieved, having escaped his demise, but soon he was cursing again. A frying pan was slammed over the top of his cranium, and I giggled. "Shut up, ya loudmouth numbskull!" Eliza hissed. Surely, after such a whack, Gilbert was numbskulled. Looking up a me, she dropped her weapon (back onto Gilbert's head, might I add). "What did he do this time?" She asked, leaning against the doorframe as Gilbert dragged himself off to lick his wounds.

"Oh," I sweetly tilted my head, loving the attention Eliza gave me. "He purposely told my new room mate how to incorrectly pronounce my name, as though it were correct."

The brunette woman nodded, not having to reply to communicate her sympathy. She retrieved her pan, placing it in its rightful spot in the kitchen. I followed her, catching a glimpse of Alfred wordlessly following in after me. I could see him trying not to laugh, which pleased me. The more people that took pleasure in Gilbert's pain, the better.

I assumed that Alfredo had gone to collect whatever other things he had, while I stayed in the kitchen with Eliza.

"Yeah," she continued to explain. "Gilbert has got to learn to keep his big mouth shut. You know the baby I've been watching lately? Yeah, he keeps on waking him up! For such a cute little thing, what with his curly hair, he sure has quote the pair of lungs." As if on cue, I heard screaming from another room, right as Alfred (or perhaps it was Gilbert) opened a door. I saw Eliza's eyes darken. As for me, I wondered how that had woken the baby up, and not all the yelling.

"Short nap?"

"Yes." She grit her teeth, and I could already see Gilbert getting another wallop later on. Elizaveta stormed out, and I browsed the various collection of magnets on her refrigerator. It pleases me, that the ethnicities are blending so well these days. The little thing that Eliza watches from time to time is an infant belonging to an elderly black couple, who have been given the task of caring for their grandson in place of their daughter. I don't know the full story, but I knew that Eliza was doing a good thing. Along with Gilbert, I suppose. Eliza had said that she was surprised by how well he was getting on when they baby-sat, aside from waking up the poor little thing.

Whilst looking over the pins, I noticed a few more eye catching ones. Magnets that were more interesting than the usual "Live. Laugh. Love." Or "Hakuna Matata." 's that I saw all too often. No, these were laminated circles featuring literal banana hammocks, dancing joints and their hemp leaf cousins, a bear brandishing a rocket launcher, and even one that read, "You Have an Hour to Get Your Hand Out of My Pants." That one was, by far, my favorite.  
"She just got that one." Gilbert said.

I giggled. "She has excellent taste."

Alfred then appeared, halfway out the door by the time he said to me in an audaciously brave tone, "Come on, you communist manifesto fucker. Gilbert told me you like organizing."

If it were the last thing I ever did, I'd kill Gilbert.


	5. Chapter 5: A Story Not My Own

**A/N: Oh man. Late update. I need to write faster. Anyway. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! It makes me feel special, oho. Enough with the sappy stuff, and on with the story! Plot elements are** ** _finally_** **being introduced!**

 **(Edit: I forgot to add the Chapter Title. My bad! I uploaded this chapter in a hurry.)**

 **Enjoy!**

 _ **A Story Not My Own, and Some Reflection (To Be Continued...)**_

He could feel the butterfly sun brush up against his sweet skin. A blush marred his cheeks, and he shooed away his desperately wanting escort by stepping into the shadow of an onlooking tree. The Spanish moss that hung from its branches looked delightful, but Alfred knew better than to investigate them. They housed minuscule red bugs that had a craving for flesh.

Stepping away from the shade, Alfred bounced from one foot to another, making his way towards the place he called home. It was a quaint country house, nestled at the foot of the forest, overlooking a vast field.

The grass tickled his legs, while a few mangy weeds nipped at his clothes. The boy with blonde hair and too many good thoughts ignored them all, eyes leading him along an unmarked path. A bark broke his bliss, and there was Beth, an old odd-eyed blue healer. Alfred squealed, overjoyed that the hound had come to join him in his scouting. After giving an appropriate compliment and scratch on the head, Alfred continued on with his companion.

"Come on, Beth." He whispered, being sure not to alert any suspicious grasshoppers. "I heard that HE is back..." Beth cocked her head, having forgotten who _he_ was.

Alfred never heard the unsaid question, crouching in a tall grove of thornless bramble and white daisies. From here, he could efficiently spy on the house without being seen himself. And there, the boy narrowed his eyes and grinned, was his target. A pompous jerk, all dressed up in his urbane overcoat and wrinkle-lacking pants. He was just now getting out of his antique car, squinting through the fluttery rays of sunlight. Alfred heaved a small gasp as Beth took off from her spot beside him. She was making a racket, and Alfred buried himself deep into the brush, hoping not to be spotted.

"Oh, hush up, Beth!" His target groaned. "Come on, now, I haven't been gone for that long, now have I?" Alfred pictured the green eyed man bending down and petting his beloved friend in an effort to calm the dog.

Alfred waited a moment longer, then peeked from his spot. Excellent, his target had turned away, and was heading up the paved path to his house...  
Creeping along, slowly at first, then on his feet, a bit faster now, and then the boy was sprinting. "Hah!" He cried in victory, attempting to tackle his target at the waist. Beth yipped in surprise.

Arthur jumped, peering down at the eight year old who had attacked him. "Alfred?" He inquired, scrunching his comical bushy brows. "God, you've grown big since I last saw you."

Suddenly, the belligerent turned benevolent, as a tackle melted into a hug. "Hey, Arthur." Alfred buried his face into the older man's side, muffling his voice. "You're a big fat turkey."

Arthur grunted as he lifted up his younger sibling, coming face to face with the bright eyed boy. "Am I now?"

"Yeah." Alfred scowled. "You take waaaaaaaay too long to come back home."

Arthur sighed. "Come on, none of that." Alfred's frown deepened, making his captor smirk. "I brought you something back from England."

Alfred nearly jumped out of Arthur's arms. "HECK YEAH!" Arthur only laughed as Alfred wiggled and whooped, turning to enter the house he had called home only so many years before.

Within, they were both greeted by their parents, before Alfred was sent off. He gladly left, not wanting to bother with all the adult stuff the three were discussing. Arthur would join him soon enough, he was assured. It was the crest of June, and school was a distant memory, one that Alfred hoped would fade away entirely. And, as he did every summer, Arthur had come from his overseas home in England to visit for two weeks. Alfred wondered what it would be like to live in a such a busy place. The boy saw his rural home in Florida as a rather boring place to live. He constantly badgered Arthur to pack him in a bag and bring him right along to wherever he lived in England. That way, he could assist Arthur in whatever it was that he did there. Maybe he helped organize sheep. Or... Was it Ireland that did that? Alfred couldn't remember, therefore it couldn't be important.

It wasn't important. Arthur didn't let Alfred tag along, mentioning something about that being 'insanely illegal'. Alfred just groaned, and when he blinked, Arthur was gone again. He blinked those too-blue eyes one more time, and school had returned with a vengeance. His birthday flew right past, and then summer visited right along with Arthur.

It all blurred together, like an abstract portrait. Life trusted Alfred to follow right along, turning its back to him as it went on. Alfred followed best he could, but in the end, he managed to mess up somewhere. He managed to wind up in a dead end apartment complex with a communist who towered over him and gave him the creeps.

I've made it my mission to figure out where Alfred went wrong.

Perhaps I'm being nosey. Perhaps I'm just horribly lonely, having only shared passive aggressive conversations with people that hate me as much as I hate them over the past few years. Perhaps I've been poisoned.

I think back to that fateful bottle, that fateful face... It is a disturbing thought: I'm pretty sure that Alfred had been the one to poison me. I'm fairly certain that he still is.

But... Still, I have my doubts. I cannot imagine such a man as Alfred (I call him a man, but truly, he is only 19) would go out of his way to kill me. Then again, maybe Gilbert honestly wants me gone. Ha, if I am to go down, I will take him with me.

Nonetheless, I have so far pieced together what I can about Alfred, as the beginning movement demonstrates. I will continue to out together this jigsaw person, in the hopes of one day showing him (and therefore proving to myself that he had not been my attempted killer). Then, he will look at me in terror, crying, "What are you, some kind of mind reader?"

To that, I will cackle, and dramatically jump through a window. It will look very cool, especially to Alfred. He seems to have an appreciation for action scenes.  
In just these first two weeks, I have learned more about him than I had learned about Gilbert in my first two years. Then again, I find myself actually wanting to learn something about this worst enemy, than that hideous Nazi. As aforementioned, I'm rather sick of being the outlier, so I'm giving Alfred a chance. He is a fixed subject, after all, and not only that, but also a temporarily fixed subject (an oxymoron, emphasis on the moron, if you will). If this social experiment goes awry, then so be it. He and I will move on, surely to try again at whatever our goals might be once more.

... I call this an experiment. Lying to myself would be a cruel torture, so I ought to hold true to my statements, by conducting this as scientifically as possible (I do love my experiments, and I do wonder if Alfred will eventually let me take the temperature of his eyes (Veña, Gilbert, and Eliza all refused, granting me long periods of dismay)).

So, to lay out the variables... The independent variable will be me, Ivan (pronounced with an EE and a long aah, in case you didn't catch that). The dependent variable will be Alfred. The controlled will be... Our environment, for I do not have plans on moving rooms.

... I assume documentation would also be most appropriate. After all, as famous Mythbuster Adam Savage once said, "The difference between screwing around and science is writing it down." He also said, "When in doubt, C-4." A wise man, he is.

From what I observe, Alfred likes watching movies at night. He also enjoys making slightly burnt breakfast at unreasonable hours (be it late or early), and investigating things that are not his.

It was the forth night, at precisely 9:37 Post Meridian, the night on which the cold sweat and other aftereffects of the poisoning finally faded, and the slight awkwardness of living with a stranger/nemesis still clouded the air, that Alfred looked at me from his slanted position on the reclining armchair he had claimed. He was seated sideways, he head and upper body twisting to lean on the edge of the back of the chair, while his legs were carelessly dumped across the other arm and downwards to oblivion. Between his bright teeth, he said, "Hey uh... Can we watch a movie?" I gave him a look, a rather blank one. Quick to jump to his own defense, he went on. "Uh, I mean... Listen, I haven't been getting great sleep, okay? I usually watch movies before bed, so..." He proceeded to reach under his decadent lap blanket (I was shocked to learn that he never owned a Snuggie), pulling forth a copy of The SpongeBob SquarePants movie, AKA the best movie ever. Aside from all the other best movies ever...

Realizing that I was probably not getting out of this one, I agreed with little argument, taking a seat on the furthest corner of the couch from the blond maniac. I would bet money on the fact that, had he not been so 'exhausted' (poor lost creature, he is), he would've gotten up and replicated some famous football player's touchdown celebration as soon as he stood up. Instead of making an absurd fool of himself, Alfred simply put the movie into my old and worn player, allowing the disc to go through its motions until it reached the title screen. Upon this, he set the movie into action, immediately scuttling off as soon as the enthralled pirates appeared onscreen. I was far too engrossed in the movie to recognize the simple fact that popcorn does not take half of The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie's runtime to make, nor does it require a burnt smell, pans, or a toaster.

By the time he returned to his chair territory, SpongeBob and Patrick had lost their incredible krabby patty car to one sea monster (who pulled a sinister trick on them, one I could compare to the plots of lonely old white men with white vans and bunkers), then proceeded to lose that sea monster to one of incredible proportions. The second sea monster was my favorite character, I only wish that it had been more developed.

Alfred had a piping plate of slightly brown eggs and slightly darkened toast. Rather than ask him, I waited for him to explain his queer actions. I am a fool for this, because Alfred sees nothing wrong with anything he does, ever. Unless it's asking to watch movies for seven year olds, apparently.

Finishing up his late night atrocity, Alfred laid his plate on the ground, and promptly fell asleep, dozing off to SpongeBob and Patrick Star's dying song, I'm a Goofy Goober. Honestly, I thought that Titanic had tear jerking moments, but gosh, it was nothing like that scene. Finally, King Neptune's crown was returned, the enslaved fish of Bikini Bottom were saved by a rock and roll god of a sponge, and Mr. Krabs was freed from his icy prison. Additionally, SpongeBob got his managerial position, while at the same time making Squidward out to be an unkempt outsider to society (I would do the same if someone stole my job like he had, the bastard).

I cut off the tv, feeling satisfied and slightly annoyed, what with the abandoned plate, and the song stuck in my head (Ocean Man, by Ween). I allowed the plate to rest in the sink, deciding for myself that sleep was to be put before dishes.

At 4:57 Ante Meridian, I heard something in the sink. In my half asleep state, I hoped it was Alfred doing his dishes in some act of apology for falling asleep during the greatest movie ever.

When I woke up again at 8:11 Ante Meridian, I allowed myself a few moments to regroup my thoughts, and plan out my day, idiotically assuming that my life had not been altered by another human being. As soon as my head returned to its normal state, I leaped out of bed, scrambling to investigate the damage that had been done. I was confused, and oddly pleased to find Alfred still asleep in his arm chair, and the dishes done.

Suddenly, however, I was not pleased. My hall closet was wide open. He had either gone through it, messed with it, or out his stuff in it. Either way, he had pissed me off and made me feel insecure. What if, I thought, he had found my nonexistent stashes of Snuff My Little Pony tapes? It is a gruesome thing, to be afraid of something you very well know is not there.

In retaliation, I dug through the new things in the closet, coming up with a pair of socks. Taking aim, I laughed the cloth projectile, hitting Alfred right on his temple. This action elicited a scream that pierced the floor above us, and I knew I was in deep trouble when I heard familiar pounding on my door.


	6. Chapter 6: A Story I Can Call My Own

**A/N: Another morning update! Hello everyone, and thank you to those who reviewed! It means so much to me that people are enjoying this... Especially with how slow the plot is, and will be for a while yet. It's not like those hyper intensive stories where three plot elements clash at once, and its not supposed to be. No, this will be a relaxing, humorous story, til around the end, and then it will REALLY pick up, trust me when I say that. But I won't say anything else.**

 **Additionally, sorry if some chapters seem pathetically short. I have them broken up like I do for reasons. Hopefully, not very many more short chapters ever again. Not that this one is short.**

 _ **A Story I Can Call My Own, and Recollections (Continued, with guest star Apostrophe Ess!)**_

My father was a lofty man. It seemed that he had all the wealth in the world, or as much wealth as a world based on the Dark Corner of South Carolina could permit. It was all bequeathed by his father, and his grandfather before him (and probably even farther down the line, but I'll stop it here for convenience), an amassed collection of vast land plots, collector's items, and money made from illegally producing some of the finest moonshine across the Blue Ridge.

My father was more than well off with his inheritance, and more than smart in his possession of it. He already had a steady job, and he had received a sturdy house (which was nothing short of luxurious. Not too big, not too small, the perfect cabin the woods, lacking the murderers, of course).

At the haughty age of 23, my father decided that he was to go to a place where so many attempted to venture, but often failed to reach- Dream Land. Fairy Tale village. A faraway place, fit with perfect glories abound. Or, in my father's terms, wife hunting. It was to be my father's grandest accomplishment: to seek out a mate, and reproduce. An heir to pass on his grand attainment was nothing short of a life long desire. Yes, we are talking about me, here.

My father was not a short sighted man, either. As a matter of fact, he was literally far sighted, as were his goals. His wife was not to be some hillbilly inbred, no sir. She was to be, as Pops so eloquently put it, 'exotic'. I find that to be offensive, but I can't tell him that anyway, now can I?

My mother, on the flip side, found that statement to be quite flattering, when applied to her person. For her 20 year old Czech self, to be referred to as exotic was a compliment beyond compliments. They met just outside of Charleston, at one of the local hipster coffee shops. They hit it off, and it wasn't long before my father ended up traveling back with my mother to her homelands, to be granted permission to get hitched. It was the gloomy city of Prague, to be exact (how humorous, for my father claimed to be of Eastern European descent, and I believe him simply because he was a man of good word). There, my father was confronted by my mother's disapproving parents. They looked at him and thought, "Gah, I do NOT want my daughter to be marrying some hillbilly inbred!" When faced with the fact that my father was a very rich hillbilly inbred, their mood lightened considerably. But still, they insisted, my father had to prove himself. It was some ancient tradition they came up with on the spot, and gosh, they were shocked when my father readily agreed. There was to be not a thing that got between him and his exotic woman, and half exotic son (he declared that he would only have one son, nothing more. What do you know, he did not lie).

The determination of this task was simple- he had to do the most ridiculous, dangerous thing that my maternal grandparents could think up.  
Ah, and luckily for them, the Soviet Union was a mighty nation at the time (early-1970's, I'd say. No quoting me on it, however). It was so great, that it had set up an embassy, right smack dab in Prague. My grandparents got a twisted smile on their faces, and said unto my father, "Go to the Soviet Embassy, and steal a Soviet flag. Succeed in your quest, and you shall be awarded the hand of our fairest maiden, and take her as your wife and servant. Fail, and enjoy your final moments filled with automatic rifle rounds."

My father replied, "You're on, buddy!"

And so, he went off, just at twilight. In front off all the security cameras, all the armed guards, he expertly scaled the pole flying his chosen flag. Up the pole he scuttled, shuffling upwards without fear. He wasn't thinking of the bullets, or the communist nation glaring at him from its homeland. He was thinking of the future. The future blinded him, brought him only thoughts of the glory to come. For surely, it was worth this. My mother was worth this. I was worth this.  
My father tore the flag from its perch, descending in a style befitting a panicking firefighter. It seemed as though the present has caught up to him. No longer did future promises hold the most importance, the thought of surviving to those distant points broke forth, as did common sense. And suddenly, his feet hit the ground, and then he was gone. Never had a man run so fast. He would've given Sonic the Hedgehog a run for his gold rings. On and on he went, and his legs begged him to go farther. "Don't stop!" The commanded. "I'd rather us drop dead trying to get away than drop dead because we were caught!"

As it turns out, he was never pursued. Oddly enough, not a guard, nor a security camera had caught him. Fate had grinned upon his form this day, but she would frown upon him soon enough afterwards, as if to take back her compliment and replace it with a point-blank shotgun.

Presenting the flag to those who had requested it, and dumbfounding them, my father earned my mother's hand in marriage. It does sound like an ancient fairy tale, something entitled, "The Man who Baffled the Communist Super Power, and His In-Laws". They lived in Prague for a few years more, until my mother discovered she was heavy with child, AKA me. It was decided that the backwoods of the southern United States would be the safest place to raise their child, as Eastern Europe at wasn't the most prime of real estate at the time (1985). As much as I would love to argue, I cannot, or, will not. There is little purpose, because I am still in the southern United States, at the easily mobile age of 25. I could leave if I wanted. Perhaps my legs just haven't realized that yet.  
My father handed down his mythical flag to me just before he became Swiss cheese, which he had kept hidden deep in a drawer, securely beneath his underwear. How flattering.

For me, it was a dawn of a new era. He had told me to burn it above his grave the day he died (no, he did not predict his death. That was a coincidence), and it translated in my head to something like, "Keep this flag as your most precious possession, and let nothing get between it and you." I nodded my head up and down, heartily agreeing with Pop's (my own) forward planning.

I was but a wee thing when my father recited my origin tale. Like many origin tales, it left out most of the child inappropriate details, perhaps out of fear of DSS. No matter, I would come to assume these very details myself soon enough.

When I went to school, all I did was brag about my incredible tale. "It is my soul!" I proclaimed. The teacher overheard me boasting to my clan, and she intervened with the fierceness of a fat pigeon after a bread crumb.

"Now, now," she scolded, whipping her index back and forth. "I'm sure you've all learned what a soul truly is, in Sunday school?" The children around me grinned and nodded. "A soul is your spirit, like the Holy Spirit, only not as important!" One young girl volunteered. She was my best friend out of them all. The teacher gave a lopsided grin. "Ah, yes, something like that..." Fixing her beady pigeon eyes on me, she declared as-a-matter-of-factly, "A soul is NOT a story... Especially not such a crude story like yours, Ivan." The way she had said my name, it struck a nerve a never knew I had, making a drastic change in my mind.  
"Don't call me I-van," I argued. "Call me E-vahn." The teacher sighed. I turned back to Katyusha, finishing up my story as the teacher walked off to her desk, waiting for a plane to crash into the building.

Next year, I retold the story to some new friends. This new teacher overheard my story as well, and he sneered like a hog would upon an unfortunate tuber plant. "So your father willingly keeps dirty communist propaganda in his house, and teaches his son about it? Well, I'll have to ask around about that."  
As we all know, the Cold War was a vicious conflict. Both sides of the war were told and told and told again that the other side was the darkest, most disgusting and off putting evil ooze that had ever been conjured up. Naturally, I only assumed that this was false, and that poor Soviet Russia deserved a chance just like America did. America makes mistakes just like Soviet Russia, what's so different?

My teacher stared at me in blissful awe. Here was a child before him, a poor little sucker, and some other insult I can't quite recall. I had completely fallen under the enemy's spell. I was as good as gone. In fact, I likely had atomic weapons in my satchel (I didn't carry a backpack). The teacher shook his head and walked away, as I finished my tale.

The next year was similar to the previous, except when the teacher overheard me this time, he exclaimed, "what in the good lord's name are you preaching about? What, are you trying to make MORE traitors, huh, you little ruffian? If you ask me, you should be thrown out! Gah, look at him, he bears the sickle and hammer, too. Disgusting, absolutely abysmal..." The other students stared at me with wide third grader eyes. Those eyes were unsure, some hostile, others sympathetic.

"Mr. Smilee," we all chanted after class, "Is a crazy old horse!" But I couldn't help but feel bad. No one other than Mr. Smilee (who's name was ironic, for he never smiled) had noticed the symbol I bore on my satchel. It was on the side that hugged my side, I had drawn it on, in a wonderfully neat way. I was very proud, until the moment that I was shot down. I assume that it is how a flushed bird would feel; they think they are escaping danger by exiting their bush, but in reality, they are flying right into it.

Elementary school was a life lacking prejudice. But by eighth grade, I had realized that my odd adoration for the Soviets was only shared by heretics and anarchists. I was not either, I had nothing but support for my country, but I also rooted for the USSR (not to blow anyone up, but to merely keep trekking). This was a very, very unpopular opinion among those around me. These were true bred Americans (unlike I), and they had true love for their country (unlike I). No longer did they care about my long hair (they shamed me for it) and no longer did anyone appreciate my accidental rebellion against our elders.

Throughout my school life, I tried my hardest to learn all I could about the USSR, and not just about how big and evil they were. I wanted to know the history, the leaders, the culture... But I was never given a supple answer. This is a good thing, for if I had been given the direct truth, I would've felt sick to my stomach.

I would've felt sicker than when I would come home with bruises on my cheeks and blood on my knuckles.

Now that I do know the disastrous science behind my gentle obsession, I feel an even larger resentment towards those who scorned me, those who beat me, those who left me behind for one sole reason.

I hate the damn Yankies, but more than I hate them, I hate Southerners. I hate their mac and cheese casseroles, I hate their caged hunting dogs. I hate how they hated me in such a simple way. I hate their accent, and I hate their fiddles.

I told my Momma this, and she growled, "Dont you dare use that word. Hate is a horrible thing to have in your heart, not to mention you're a damn lair."  
So I said it again. "I hate them, momma."

I said, "Momma, do you know what it's like to be broken and bloody like that? Huh? To have your dearest friends detach themselves as painfully as possible? All because of what you think is right? I didn't agree with everything that the USSR did. I just didn't think it was right to treat the people like they weren't what they were: people. Just like us, Momma. I didn't think that it was right when they swung their fists at what they thought was the whole entity of their proclaimed enemy, when really, it was just me. I hate 'em, Momma."

Momma sighed. "You got senseless dragons in your head, you snake eyed boy."

As the banging on my door grew in volume, Alfred stared at me, looking rather offended. In a hoarse morning voice, he told me, "Answer the damn door!"  
I stared at the sock-scared man for a little while longer, then I turned to answer the angry door. There stood Gilbert, and we both deflated a little upon seeing each other so early in the morning.

Gilbert answer my question before I ever asked. "Eliza sent me down here to find out what Alfred was yelling about." The Nazi looked roughed up, and I sorely bit back a laugh, which turned it into something like a ride gurgle. Gilbert didn't react. "Forceful woman, isn't she?" I inquired.

Gilbert shook his head, dragging his hands down his cheeks dramatically. For as much as we fought, Gilbert and I could easily vent to each other, taking glee in each other's down fall. "Very. She pushed me off the bed this morning... While she was still asleep. And then when Alfred freaked out- hey, why'd he do that, anyway?" Gilbert peered past me, under my arm, which was braced against the door frame.

"I threw a sock at him."

"Oh," Gilbert rolled his blistering eyes. "Anyway, when he yelled, she jumped out of the bed, on me..."

"You didn't move when she kicked you off beforehand?"

"Nope. I didn't feel like it."

"Of course." I rubbed my chin inquisitively, waiting for Gilbert to go on. He always had something stupid to say after venting.

"Sometimes, Eliza makes me wanna go gay." There it was. "You know? I would rather have it up the ass than have my insides crushed and my head smashed on a daily basis."

"Oh, you self loathing little thing." I coed. "Don't worry Gil, it's just a rough Monday morning. Besides, she makes you moan louder than a water buffalo every other day, and I don't think it's legal for Nazis to be gay anyhow. Right?"

The law abiding Nazi grinned, and the light returned to his eyes. "You're damn right, Ivan, damn right."

For such a dysfunctional couple, Gilbert and Elizaveta were oddly perfect for each other. Every night, you would either hear them shouting about one thing or another, or moaning like dead men. Sometimes, they were silent, but that was usually a bad sign. It was likely why they had no direct neighbors, aside from me (and Alfred, now). I had some serious respect for Eliza, she was a strong woman, and she put up with Gilbert day in and day out. Not to mention, she made him happy, even when she kicked his ass. It seemed like Gilbert needed someone to kick his ass, someone who wasn't me. So for Eliza to fill that role, I give my praise. Additionally, she has a very interesting name, one like my own, that breaks in the rules in one way or another. Elizaveta, how beautiful and traitorous, in comparison to Elizabeth.

"Oh, yeah," Gilbert interrupted my thoughts. "She told me to give Alfred this." Suddenly, my hand was fully of something that felt like a large, cold noodle. Gazing at what had been dropped so trustingly into my palm, as I heard Gilbert take off to who knows where, I realized that this cold, large noodle was alive.  
When I was least expecting it, Alfred practically lunged over my shoulder, nearly causing me to keel over. I hadn't even heard him approach.

"Apostrophe Ess!" He cried out, overjoyed.

I peered at him curiously. "You... Know this noodle?"

Alfred gently took the noodle from my hand, allowing it to curl around his finger and wrist. "Yes, I do. Just like you know Siberia, yeah?" He turned and sauntered back to his chair, pointedly swaying his hips back and forth. I realized that he had finally grown entirely comfortable in my home, and I decided that this fact was either perfectly fine, or perfectly disastrous.

"So, what is Apostrophe Ess, exactly?" I made my own way to my favorite spot on the couch, after closing the door and locking it tight (I never forget to lock it, not after my hallucination trip). The cushions beneath me squeaked a little as I sat down, causing me to frown a bit.

"Ess is a corn snake." Alfred scowled at me, as if it were obvious. Hell, I had thought she was a noodle. Then again, I also secretly worshipped Stalin before I found out about his 18-24 million 'mistakes', so maybe I shouldn't take myself so seriously.

After having given me a curt explanation as to this new creature, Alfred held out his snake like a gold medal on his hand. I observed the gorgeous checkers of varying shades of orange and yellow and black and white along the snake, and I also noticed her unbelievable smile. Yes, dare I say it, this small creature was grinning, in an awfully similar manner to her handler.

Alfred allowed his snake to make her way up his arm, and onto his shoulders, blissfully smiling.

"Alfred, where did you get that?" I asked, as Siberia, sensing something new, jumped onto my lap to observe from afar.

"Oh, I got her a few years ago, you know, from a pet store." I cocked a brow, demanding a bit more of an answer. "Uh, oh, yeah, I asked Gilbert to pick her up from... My dad's house."

"Your... Dad's house." I repeated. "How old are you again?"

"Nineteen. Yeah, I asked him to do it, cuz I don't want to have to go back there again..." Alfred began to stroke the snake very, very gently on the snout, no longer paying any attention to me. I had a feeling he was avoiding my oncoming questions like one would avoid oncoming traffic, and I thought about swerving my car to ram him head on.

Discarding that idea for another time, I stroked my own pet, her purring soon filling up the silence in the room. I leaned my head back, allowing the 7:26 Ante Meridian morning to fade into nothing.

"Why are you always smilin' like that?" Alfred interrupted my fade, and I opened a single eye to stare at him. "Like, some people have resting bitch face... You got resting grin face or something. Kinda creepy, you know that?"

I took in a breath, pondering on how I would use it. "What were you doing this morning, in my closet, Alfred?"

Alfred stopped dead in his mental tracks, clearly taken aback by my question. Just as he was about to dodge it, I shot him down. "I know you were rooting through it, just like I know you were washing dishes. Tell me, Alfred, what did you find in there?"

Alfred looked away, and Apostrophe gave me a dirty look. "I uh... Found a flag... Like Gilbert said I would..." As he spoke, he got quieter and quieter, face growing slightly more of an embarrassed red.

And soon, the room was filled with a deathly silence, Alfred nervously staring at the floor, while I straightened up to stare at him, slightly more intense as very moment passed.

"So," I whispered, and Alfred jumped. "Gilbert told you about my flag, now did he? What else did he tell you, hm?" I began to snake my way over the arm of the couch, slowly creeping closer to the absurdly freaked out Alfred. "Did he tell you about my prized collection of whips, hmm? Or anything about my big ol' box of bones, eh?" Alfred was utterly conflicted, half of him wanting to tell me off, the other half taking every word I said completely serious. "Oh, I bet he told you about my hand autographed portrait of Stalin. Well, I'll tell you, he has one of Hitler!" I grinned as wide as I could, snickering in an oddly genuine way.

Alfred, seeing through my ruse, clocked me on the top of my head, bringing my shaky structure to a crumbling end as I crashed into a fit on the floor. He stormed off, declaring, "I'm going to go get food for Apostrophe!" And muttering something like, "I'm never listening to Gilbert again..." Smart boy.

As I regained my composure, and soothed a frustrated and hungry cat, I began to wonder why Alfred had fallen for my pathetic teasing anyway. Not only that, but why I had pulled such a stunt. How odd of me, to use such silly half threats against a guest in my cheap home. No matter, I had a bit of fun, and surely Alfred wouldn't hold a grudge.

Yes, I said to myself, settling down to root through Alfred's things, he wouldn't hold a grudge at all.


	7. Chapter 7: One Sick Puppy

**A/N: Another chapter, yay! Not much to report this go around, aside from the fact that the next chapter is long as hell. I also suppose that FINALLY we get into some nitty gritty in this chapter, we set foot into Alfred's hidden past! Hopefully, it will be enjoyable.**

 **I do have a question for my readers, however: Should I go back and double space all of my chapters? If even one person could provide a yes or no answer I would be incredibly thankful. The program I use to type doesn't automatically double space, and I just want to know if having it all double spaced would make it easier to read.**

 **Enjoy~**

 _ **One Sick Puppy**_

A list of thought-provoking things I found whilst investigation Alfred's well organized bag-  
1\. A special container, water tight and UV protected, guarding what looks to be some of the most sought after comic books ever to exist.  
2\. More, smaller containers (around seven of them), storing what looked to be prized action figures, once again of high value.  
3\. A pocket knife, themed with the star spangled banner, hidden in similarly themed pair of socks (I'm assuming so that he would know where it was...?)  
4\. A pair of unusually ordinarily glasses, stored in an unusually bland glass case, that was branded, 'Texas'.  
5\. A few pairs of crumpled clothes, disastrously messy compared to the other neatly folded articles of clothing. They appeared to be worthless and destroyed in one way or another (one pair of jeans had cigarette burns, another pair of khaki shorts had dark, unidentifiable stains, and finally, a sky blue tee shirt, that looked as though it would compliment his skin tone and eye color fantastically, was scared on the back by what I think to be massive knife-strike holes), and I couldn't imagine why he would still have them instead of throwing them away.  
6\. A small, cream colored stuffed cat.  
As for the thoughts these items provoked, here is a list of those:  
1\. Jeez, this guy is, for lack of better words, a massive nerd.  
2\. Seriously, nerd alert, yikes.  
3\. Apparently, he's also an America fanatic, like most southerners. I'm sure he is unwavering in his belief that America is the greatest of all places, and always will be, and if anyone has anything to say about that, then they can enjoy a nuke up the ass. How I do detest that outlook.  
4\. ... I'm honestly not sure what this means. Texas? Glasses? ... Alfred is a man of mystery.  
5\. This is... Disturbing, especially with my vexing imagination. (Alfred has become a hardened hit man in my head now, who began his career at age five. Yep, I've trashed the peachy keen sunny fields of past days, as an author might trash any background story, and honestly, I'll probably trash it again at an hour within my sight.)  
6\. Gosh, it's cute. The cat is quite new looking, it's thick brown neck fur still boasting a fluff sure to make real felines jealous.  
7\. Ohgoshdarnitall

Alfred had caught me, red handed. Peculiarly, his expression was unreadable. And once again, he had crept up on me. I hadn't heard him enter, and I hadn't detected his approach. He may have been watching me fiddle with the creatures, muttering my thoughts to myself, until I finally noticed him. Tucked under his arm was a glass terrarium, filled with various decorations and suitable padding for Ess, along with an empty water bowl.

I looked up at him from my criss-cross-apple-sauce position, smiling in the most gingerly of ways. And Alfred stared right back down. It was during this miniature face off, that I saw how disturbed Alfred looked. He hadn't looked like this before he has left. His hair hadn't been tossed irregularly. His pupils hadn't shrunk in his irises. His jaw hadn't been hard set, his knuckles hadn't been white, he hadn't been like this. And I began to think about the clothes I had found...  
"There is something wrong, Alfred?"

His head shook, back and forth. "No, Ivan. Besides, I wouldn't tell you anyway, jerk." However simple and dull his words may have been, they caused me to recoil harshly. It was clear beyond the need for words that he was angered by my snooping, far more angered than I had been about his.

Alfred reached down as though I weren't there, tenderly grabbing his possessions from my tormenting hands. After which, he placed them in a precise manner in his bag, and secured it closed, somehow managing all this with his glass burden.

"I'm going to set Ess up in your room, Ivan." Alfred deserted his belongings, deciding that they were too far gone, and he was too far behind. I heard him enter my room, and close the door softly behind.

I stared after him, and mulled over whether or not I should've done what I did. It was almost an act of revenge, a fair repercussion for the blond to have gotten into my closet on the whim of something Gilbert had said.

Speaking of which, I stood from my tight position, and ventured to my closet. Upon first inspection, all signs suggested that nothing had been tampered with. But I doubted this, wholeheartedly. I began to dig, and bemoaned this action, for I began to dig up bits and pieces of a life I left behind. It was a sore spot, as much as I loathed it to be so.

When I was a bit younger, around sixteen, my mother had forced me to get a job. She said that we hadn't the finances to keep up the house, and I readily assented. I found an out of the ordinary market to fall into at my naive age, one of tree chopping, wood carving, and occasional welding. I became quite strong through the process, and the pay wasn't shabby. Now, looking at the projects I brought forth, a revolting nostalgia crept through my mind, such a thing that I could not expunge. In my rough hands I held a small eagle carved from oak, sanded and lacquered to a smooth dark finish. It was one of my first successful pieces, and I loved it so much I kept it. I was planning of giving it to my nana for her birthday, but she sadly, she kicked the bucket before I could, which was a notably funereal (hah, wordage pun) cognizance.

Then, there was a miniature chair, constructed from tiny square metal sticks, and a seat shaped cut out of sheet metal. It was such a task to create this chair that could fit in my hand, as the whole process of brazing it all together was strenuous enough, considering all the tiny parts I had to deal with. At the end of it all, it looked like a legitimate chair, one that had gotten shrunk by a fabled shrink ray.

I returned the small objects back to their box, filled with their sisters and brother, shoving it back into the closet. I then took the bleeding red flag from its hidden corner, pressing it to my face and breathing deeply. I could smell my home in the threads of the flag...

"What the FUCK." Alfred had snuck up on me yet again, and this time I didn't even startle. I merely narrowed my eyes, and replied, "I'm remembering."  
Alfred made a sound I recognized as crude laugh- whatever had been bothering him, he had gotten over. "So Gilbert isn't that much of a liar."

Flag muffling my voice, I retorted, "Believing anything he says is sure to leave you dead."

"I'll be dead anyway." Alfred snorted, and I signed dramatically. "Hey, can you make tacos? Gilbert said you can make killer tacos, so... Do that." I shit my eyes, wrinkled my nose, and fell backwards, landing painfully on the hard floor.

Alfred yelped, but didn't question me. 'If you want to give yourself contusions,' he thought, 'you do that.' With his star spangled attitude and Texas clad face, Alfred spun on his heel and retreated back to a space which he had claimed his own, leaving me to ponder exactly how many peppers I would stuff in the tacos I would make for him.

...

"Baby, love is on the wrong side of the law tonight...

He's posing with a cigarette, playin' dice upon the street...!

And yet, his features are determined... They're battered, and bruised...

He'll always come back to you."

Broken from their repose, blue eyes blinked open. Alfred levered himself from his stiff position, face planted in book he had been coloring before passing out from childish sleepiness. He almost wished he hadn't woken up, after all, it was far after dark, and he would only be going to sleep again soon enough.  
The child glanced to the door, waiting for it to open. However, as he heard that easily recognizable gritty grind across the hard floor, he knew he would be getting no visitors this hour.

It had been hard, so very difficult, adjusting to this life, this new regime. This new brother, father, relative, caretaker, whatever he was. He was a stranger to Alfred, and his ways of life were beyond the boy's young mind, at times. Such as now.

There it was. That drag, that screeching... Hands covered ears with a sureness, but the noise didn't stop. Alfred whined, hurrying back to bed. The dim lamp beside his bed nearly tumbled and shattered as Alfred clambered onto his lofty mattress, yanking his dinosaur covered comforter over his head, blinding his eyes, shielding his ears. Finally, the noise halted, leaving behind a ringing silence. Alfred couldn't see it, but he knew the whole house, no, the whole world was dark. It had been for a long, long time, Alfred recalled. A whole year, now. His birthday was soon. That would make a year and two months. Maybe then, the world could be well lit, just for his special occasion.

Schlick.

Spat.

Sclap.

The small boy whined, burying his blonde tufted head into his plump pillow. "There's a dog out there..." He whispered to a fluffy stuffed cat. This cat had a cream coat, and brown neck fur. It's glassy blue eyes held a hope for a perfect tomorrow, a gleam that Alfred's eyes mirrored.

The dog bounced off of the hallway walls, grunting with each wet step, quietly howling as it crashed into obstacles and barriers.

"It shouldn't be in the house." Alfred whispered. The cat stared at him, not taking a breath. "I need to go let it out, huh?" Tucking in the beloved stuffed thing, the brave boy creeped from his covers, cracking open his door to peer out.

Toe by tip toe, Alfred made his way from his room, tracing each bloody paw print made by the intruding animal. He could hear it up ahead, padding along, leaving behind a rancid stench. The child pinched his nose for good measure, hoping that he wouldn't have to fight off this beast.

Alfred drew a deep breath, preparing to turn a fateful corner, and face whatever cur had entered his adopted domain. But right before he could edge around the sharp curve, a resounding plod from behind caused him to stop, and look over his shoulder. A queasy smile took root upon those soft, pink lips of his, looking out of place.

"Alfred." The approacher addressed the six year old. "You should be in bed."

Alfred faced his brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was. "Yeah, but... I heard a dog. In the house." The boy insisted, in a hurry to defend himself.  
His brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was, nodded. "Yes, Alfred. I know. But you are too small to deal with any nasty dog in the house. Besides, you have a field trip in the morning. To the apple fields? Anyhow, you need to get up early to get going. As do I, Alfred. So go on, go back to bed. I'll come and check on you after I've dealt with the dog, alright?"

Alfred chewed his lip, eyes cast down. He had escaped a scolding this time, and for that he was glad, but still, he did not accomplish his goal. "Yes sir." He said, and a pat on the head and push on the back was all he got, sending him back.

Alfred snuck through his door, crawled into bed, and listened.

He heard the dog yelling, very faintly. He heard a door slam, once, twice, three times, now four. Then, there was a pause. No more disruptive noises. Until, that was, the door slammed one more time.

"That wasn't the front door." Alfred whispered to the cat, the breathless, dead cat. "And it wasn't the back door, either."

His door creaked open, and in came his brother, father, caretaker, whatever he was. The gracious man rubbed his hand through Alfred's star dusty hair, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Sleep tight, good dreams." The wish was cast upon the boy as the door closed one final time. Alfred flipped over, shivering because of something he couldn't distinguish between cold and what else.

"Alfred." The cat whispered. "The dog is dead."

...

I followed a worm path, one that I had traveled many a time before. Up the stairs, down the hall, past the cracks, over the lose pebbles, skipping the peeling paint and smoke smelling doors. And then, I had reached the pinnacle of my journey, which ironically happened to be my ultimate misfortune in the same package. I cracked the door knocker against the solid surface, waiting for the requested to answer my call.

I had left Alfred behind in the apartment below, because I said that I had to go shopping for ingredients to make his requested dinner. He pleaded with me, not to leave him, which confused me. Despite this, I insisted, and Alfred sulked. He finally permitted my departure, and now, as Elizaveta opened the door, and I asked for a ride to the story, to which she obliged, I wondered what triggered his sudden lose clinginess. I decided that he was scared, in this part of the woods. After all, it couldn't have been easy to transfer from him life to one I'm used to.

I clambered into the small sedan, that was far too close to the ground for my comfort. Elizaveta grinned at me from the driver's seat, and I returned a small, awkward grin.

"How's the snake doing?" She asked, turning the car's engine over and starting up the musty smelling vehicle. A small pine tree hang from the rear view mirror, and I guessed it was five years old.

"Apostrophe Ess?" I specified, in case she had meant any other friendly and well known reptiles. After receiving a nod, I went on. "Oh, she's wonderful. Very cute. Cuter than you in your Sunday best." Elizaveta snorted, accepting my flattery with a roll of her hazel eyes. I knew she would report my words back to Gilbert, and he would glare my way, flickering his own snakey tongue, delivering a warning for me to back the hell off of his girl. And I'd laugh, and hiss back in my own snakey voice, "She wouldn't have any other than you, Nazi-insecurity."

We went along our way, dodging in between lanes, talking about other cute things we'd seen. I claimed to see a fat bird, Elizaveta claimed to see a small bird.  
We both had a brilliant time, imagining what the other had seen in the other's absence. And then, it went quiet. We were both at one with the road, gazing at its harsh, dark sheen. Within a moment, we had reached our destination. A local grocer, who's name I won't mention for fear of being shamed.  
In we went, Elizaveta browsing the flowers and whatnot, while I made a beeline for the things I so desired. I grabbed the meat I planed to grind and brown, the tortillas I had to cook, and the herbs and cheese I needed to chop and use to dress my culinary masterpiece.

It was a recipe that had been passed down to me by none other than Veña herself, claiming that, "All of her kids were evil and unworthy, I was the only one she could trust with her skills. Yes, you idiot, I do like you, now stop asking me stupid idiot questions, before I regret passing on this tradition to your sorry ass." I cooked many a time with that woman, taking pride in my slurry of cultural dishes, from classic southern, Eastern European, and now, authentic Mexicano (yes, I use that word spitefully. I hear that old whoa,n turning in her grave, haha).

I gathered my harvest, heading to the cash register. Checking out, I handed forth a few crisp bills, and received a few back, of lesser monetary value.

I summoned Elizaveta once again, finding her crowned with a mesh of small sunflowers and pansies. She had purchased the flowers, strung them together in a way only she could, and forged a crown befitting a queen. This crown was placed upon my head as I met her, and I looked her slightly more flimsy crown.  
"You," she said, adjusting my too-long hair to better match the crown. "Are the queen of tacos."

In the car, groceries tucked in my lap, crown guarded on my head, I told her, "Gilbert said you stepped on him this morning. Does this statement h old any inkling of truth."

She sighed, and I knew that she was sorry. "Yeah, it does. I feel really bad for it, but I heard Alfred this morning, and I just... He's tough. I'll make it up to him." She grinned, and this time, I sighed, shaking my head.

"Is Alfred okay?" She looked at me oddly, and cocked a brow.

"Yes, he's fine. I only threw a sock at him, for getting up and going through my closet."

"He went through your stuff?"

"Yes. Gilbert apparently told him about my flag. You know, that one."

"Oh," The lovely and vengeful young woman hummed with understanding laughter. "He's weird, huh?"

"Yep." I agreed.

...

The cacophony from my meager living area was distracting as I made the meal for four people. Elizaveta and Alfred and Gilbert all mewled for my mentally held tradition, and I collapsed under their all together weight, giving in to their wanting. Alright, I said, I'll make you all a meal.

And so I did. I grinned the meat, chopped the onions and peppers, mixed in the spices I had on hand, and browned them all together. I placed them in their fitting tortilla homes, well grilled and steamed. To finish it off, I sprinkled the cilantro even a bit of salsa I had made a week back, using up the rest and placing the container in the sink to be washed.

Ringing the verbal dinner bell, I heard feet scrambling to get at their food, those immature fools.

I scolded them, holding my own plate above their heads so that they could not get at it.

"You made rice, too?!" Gilbert exclaimed, and I nodded. I couldn't help but grin, I couldn't help but admit this felt nice.

We all are our suppers, laughing and cracking jokes. I told Alfred the story of how I came by the flag, and he stared at me wide eyed, while Gilbert looked at me with his narrowed, judging eyes. I glared at him right back, threatening to steal his meal right back if he didn't cut the attitude. Somehow, he forced himself to relinquish his usual annoying jibes, and return to what I call a passive state.

The evening went on, and we all settled down, eventually gathering on the couch (and floor, in Alfred's case) to watch The SpongeBob SquarePants movie before we all retired, joined by Siberia as the movie began.

It went well, and I haven't a regret to say of the night. I washed up the dishes, cleaned up the space, and observed Alfred quietly lazing about as I did so. He was tending to Apostrophe, occasionally giving my cat some love as well. The snake seemed to adore him, there was no doubt. Siberia, however, definitely held me on a higher pedestal.

I was finished with my chores, as the clock rang ten. "Alfred." I said, grabbing a towel from the closet. "Im going to get in the shower, so no intrusions." He nodded, and I headed to get clean.

My hair, as long as it is, can be a pain to clean. I take the utmost care of it, even the longest strands that touch the center of my back. It has a delicate sheen, and a soft touch. It is my pride and joy, and I don't know why.

Alfred's hair, on the other hair, looks rough and dry. It makes me cringe, and I so desperately want to get my hands on the blonde follicles to properly take care of them. They would shine so wonderfully, if he would just find a soap that would work for them (I use a women's brand, personally, because I find that it works a bit better for my hair style. It doesn't insult my masculinity, but I'm afraid that Alfred will be wounded if I suggest this to him). I decide to sit down and talk to Alfred about his hair sometime in the near future, and I'll be damned if I don't manage to get it looking ship shape.

Drying myself, clothing myself, I step out of the steamed bathroom, leaving the door open to ventilate. Just as I head into my room, my domain, I realize with a sleep mind and Goldilocks is in my just-right bed.

There he is, tucked up in the pleasant fabric.

Nodding to myself, I retreat from the room, not bothering to question his placement, as I take was what usually be his sleeping spot. Just as I close my eyes, I see a set of glimmering blue ones that send a shiver down my back, for it is a gaze I recall from the liquor store.

...

Alfred got up the next morning, bright and early. He woke me up. He said, "Can you make me some coffee?" And I obliged. My head was murky and I got up, drenched in early morning light.

"Go get the paper." I told Alfred. He looked at me, foggy eyed. "Paper?"

"Yes." I confirmed. "It is out there, somewhere." Alfred nodded, and went to look for shoes.

I went to make coffee, that drink I hated but drank every morning to spite myself. I wondered if Alfred had similar reasoning.

I heard the front door open, then shut. Then I heard a noise I hadn't ever heard before. If I had to describe it, I'd say it was a like a dog. A dog, choking on dry cornbread, gasping from breath but never finding any. Then, I heard the door open fast, slam shut. I heard feet running, crashing down the way, then my door opened, and slammed shut.

I didn't bother with the coffee anymore.

"Alfred?" I asked, pressing my ear to my own door. I couldn't hear any of his noises.

So I backed off. It is best not to push someone into talking, even if you don't know what they would be talking about anyhow. "I'll get the paper for you." I mentioned, leaving the cold blockade.

I trotted to the door, and swung it open.

I saw bloody paw prints.


	8. Chapter 8: Story Telling

**A/N: Oh good lord. This chapter is so late. And I don't even have a reason for it. _Ugh, the lazy life of an author._ However... Perhaps the unusual length of this chapter will soothe the sore spot. at 5,576 words, I can't say I'm upset.**

 **... Though this isnt the most exciting chapter. That's not to say it exists without purpose, it is extremely important, containing a few plot devices. Nah, things wont get good until... Eh, last few chapters? Oh, but trust me, things will still be going on until then... But in a much more chill way. This story isnt supposed to enthrall (yet), I want it to be chill and enjoyable. Based upon the reviews Im getting... You guys might think just that! Hey, I love your reviews! I thought it was silly for an artist to claim that feedback was what drove them to do what they do, but it is true! So keep 'em coming if you all like what you see! Hmm, should I change the cover image again...?**

 **Also, I double spaced. Tell me if this is better, and if so, I'll do the other chapters.**

 **(PS: I call Lithuania by the name** **Kęstutis. It means "to cope".)**

 **(PPS: Litten is _lit,_ amiright fam?!)**

 **(PPPS: First to recognize my historical reference totally gets a free one shot. Good luck, it isnt that hard. )**

 _ **Chapter 8: Story Telling (ft. Perky Corner & Napkin Napping)**_

My back pressed against the cool surface, I felt my breath trickle from my lungs, through my esophagus, and right out my nose.

"Alfred."

The walls absorbed my voice.

"Noodle."

This time, I heard something hitch in the room I leaned against.

"Good, you are listening. Alfred, I am sorry about the dog. And the paper. I don't think it came today."  
After an eternity of silence, I sighed, and went on.

"Alfred, like I was saying, I am sorry about the dog. But this is a major city, or right outside of one, and stray dogs are not uncommon. Some dogs have allergies, and it is the start of spring, after all. The grass pollen and rough roads probably irritated his paws and eventually split them open. If you would like, we can go looking for the dog, and-"

"Ivan. It's okay. I'm not worried about the dog."

"It is not okay. I must point out that you have been holing yourself in my room for... approximately six hours and thirty seven minutes, now."

"You were clocking me, seriously? Whatever. Ivan, really, dude, I'm fine. I just got freaked out, honest."

"Alfred, seriously, noodle, you are not fine. There is something more than you just being spooked going on here. Additionally, and it would be wise to heed my intent here, I plan on sleeping in my bed tonight, whether or not you still occupy it."

"Is that a threat? You fucking weird ass?"

"Perhaps to you, the idea of me sleeping in my own bed with you, being the intruder you are, is a threat. I wouldn't know and wouldn't care, because I will be sleeping in my bed tonight. Call the cops, Alfred, I do not care."

"Maybe I will, Ivan the drug dealer."

I remained silent for a while, processing my thoughts. It was something I had thought up a little while before, and had decided that then would be the best time to put my mental epic into true words.

"Alfred." I prompted.

"What?" he asked, and I realized that his back was now pressed up against the door as well.

"I have an idea. A trust exercise, if you will."

"Uh..."

"Anyhow, here goes: Each night, after we finish watching whatever movie you select, we will each tell each other a story. It will be like a game, so here is the rule: No lying. The story must be true, and it must be about yourself. We don't know where the other came from, so we don't trust each other as much. Not to mention, I have gone through your stuff, and you have gone through mine. We both have ideas about who the other is, which... Well, I was hoping we could explain what those ideas were right here, right now. But don't argue with anything said today, that ruins the fun of the game. Do you understand?"

"... This all is because you think I'm the one with the problem?" Alfred scoffed. "Maybe you should look in the mirror."

"I look in the mirror all the time, Alfred. But because you clearly need an example, I will go first.  
Alfred, this is the story I have made about you:"

…

Once upon a time, there lived a woman. This woman's name was Annie, and she was very strong willed, and tough. She had two sons, and one husband. Both of her sons had bright blonde hair, which perfectly conflicted with her deep red locks. Her suitor, named Jonathan, was just as strong as she (but mothers have a special strength about them, so he allowed her to be a bit stronger). He was a nurse, while she worked as part time real estate agent. The whole family lived in a quaint house, just outside of a bustling city.

Alfred, the younger of the two boys, was a crazy child. His favorite activities included climbing trees then falling from them, breaking beds by jumping on them, and finally, accidentally torturing his older sibling. In addition to this, he had a massive obsession with superheroes, and he collected merchandise and comics as soon as he was old enough to earn an allowance from half ass-edly washing dishes, sweeping, and pulling weeds from the flower garden.

Arthur, his older brother, could hardly stand his younger sibling at times. In fact, he once punched Alfred square in the face for running around, screaming, and having a horrible attitude when asked to stop his nonsense. Aside from having little patience, Arthur had big dreams. He wanted to own an English castle, from medieval times. He was obsessed with knights, monarchies, and the non-existent king he was positive his parent's named him after. Arthur relentlessly studied up on history, able to recite entire chapters from his history books upon command. He even taught himself a genuine British accent and dialect, by watching British reality television. And eventually, Arthur went to a big school, a college, to study his beloved subject, and come that much closer to owning his very own castle. Just as Alfred went into high school, Arthur left him and his mother and his father behind to seek his dream. He said that he would visit every summer, but that wasn't always true.  
Alfred, on the other hand, was too busy wanting to mess around, that he hardly noticed. He didn't have a dream in particular he wanted to follow. No, all he did was make friends, and mess around. It was a life he loved, and would never give up. It seemed that most everyone liked him well enough, for one reason or another, so why give it up? He'd hate to disappoint, after all.

One summer, leading up to Alfred's senior year in high school, the last year to choose the life ahead of him as others saw it, Arthur didn't come home as usual. He was too busy; he had gotten a promotion, and everything was going just right, he said. He was so close, he said. He said, once I get that lot of land, I'll invite everyone over, and you all can live here sometimes. It'll be great. He wasn't counting on the fact that his mother would suddenly die in the most freak accident of the year. It was almost hilarious, and he would've laughed instead of vomit if it hadn't been his kin.

Bootleg fireworks, ordered by a neighbor for the Fourth of July went off before they were supposed to. Sideways. Through the kitchen window, turning most of Annie's upper half into dust.

("Woah, dude, okay. You think I have problems, Ivan? And this is the 'story' you're telling me? Please, call a psychiatrist or something, that's fucking dark."

"Alfred, hush. You interrupted me. I said not to do that.")

Suddenly, Arthur became very secluded. And very angry. Moreso than before. Alfred was yelled at over the phone many, many times, on calls arranged by his father.

The situation was grim, staring at bloodstains on the counter by the pots and pans, Jonathan decided.  
Alfred had gotten... Lazy. Lazier than before. He was having a rough time, everyone was. Jonathan lacked that motherly strength, he realized 18 years too late. He told Alfred that he should really get up and do something, maybe... And Alfred just huffed and changed position on the couch. Or the bed. Or the floor.

Soon, suggestions became screaming, and school was the only escape. Not a fantastic one, but it would do.  
However, school didn't last forever.

It was July. The fourth. Alfred's birthday, with a bloody birthday cake. He stabbed a knife into the table, and walked right out the door. This would be, he decided, the last time he got yelled at. By anyone.  
And then, Alfred ended up at Ivan's house. Apartment. Yeah, I'm getting lazy with this one, sorry. The couch isn't very nice to sleep on, Alfred, but you know that? Blame it on my messed up sleeping position, your lax story. I might fix it up later, if you'd like...  
("No, Ivan, that's okay. Seriously, you're messed up. My mom was exploded by fireworks, really? What is that, some... Communist custom, blow up your mom with fireworks from Mexico?"  
"Alfred, the custom would be sending a hitman to Mexico to go after you worst enemy and sink a pickax in their head, not blow your mother to smithereens. Besides. I've told you several times now, no comments like that."  
"Uh-huh."  
"I'm going to have a snack, to give you time to think up my story. Which you _will_ do, by the way."  
"It's not like you can make me or something."  
"Alfred, it's not wise to challenge me.")

…

I swore I heard Alfred gasp behind the door, and I hardly held back my laughter. I began to understand why Gilbert cracked the jokes he did, it was enjoyable (as much as I hate to side with the Nazi on anything).

I got up, and pranced off, wondering exactly what Alfred would come up with, and the exact same time as being disappointed with myself for creating such a bad backstory for him. I've done better, I've written better. If I am to ever become an author, I thought with a bowl of ice cream in hand, I had best shape up.

…

Okay, so, here goes nothing. I actually put some thought into this, you know.

("You did? Alfred, that's very nice."  
"Shh!"  
"Alright, alright."  
"SSHHH!")

So, get this- there's this couple, right? These two married people, yeah. From Russia. I don't really know how, but the managed moved to Georgia, right on the crest of the state. But these two are insane, man. Really crazy. They are apart of that communist America group- you know them, right? I mean, of course you do, your parents are in it. Or were. Are they dead?

Anyway.

Yeah, so these crazy people, no offense, go and have an even crazier child. Who sniffs the Soviet flag and probably fought in Vietnam and Korea on the bad side. And, uh... What happens next...

("I thought you put a lot of thought into this."  
"I did! Just, mostly into a tiny you fighting in 'Nam. Think about it, it's awesome!"  
"You'll have to tell me these war stories, Alfred."  
"Oh, cool! Okay, so there's this-"  
" _After_ this, Alfred.")

Killjoy. So what happens next... Okay, so, I think your parents were total assholes. Like, they made you eat raw oats and earn your share of the crop or something. Because communism sucks like that. Anyway, you ran away from home, and ended up at... Fuck it, a pimp's house. The pimp was named Gilbert. God, I'm imagining you and Gilbert as kids, this is horrible. You aren't actually kids, okay? That's just me. I mean, it's funny, right? Right.

Yeah, Gilbert totally set you up with this apartment, putting you with this crazy Mexican lady named Veña. She beat you over the head a bunch. Which is also pretty funny. Thank god her name wasn't Dora, that'd be terrifying.

Gilbert made you do hard labor or something to stay here. That labor being drug dealing. Hah, that sucks. I'm pretty sure you and Eliza did some pretty gay stuff like make flower crowns, and probably do stitching, after Veña kicked the bucket and Gil hooked up with Eliza. And then...

Yeah, and then I guess... I ended up here, huh?

("Yes, Alfred. That sounds about right."  
"Really?"  
"I'm saying that to say something, not necessarily something true."  
"What?"  
"Never mind, Alfred.")

…

Alfred has quite the way with words, doesn't he? (Also, he listens to Gilbert far too much for his own good. Far too much. And Gilbert talks about me far, _far_ too much. ... Perhaps I talk about him far, far too much as well.) I know his language does not flow like a winding river, and perhaps he is a tad vulgar, but I can tell there's an incredibly spun narrative in his head, playing out in vibrant pictures, and detailed scenes. He is invested in what he imagines, and that, to me, makes him an excellent story teller.

I do wonder how well I fought in 'Nam. I hope I don't get any flashbacks, however.

…

(Just a note, if I am to ever retell any story Alfred tells me (I have already, you noticed that in the last chapter, I'm assuming), I've decided to do so in the 3rd person. It is practice for me, yes? Not to mention I can... Make his language a bit more conforming to my style.)

…

Here we go. I am not such an excellent writer. You've seen my fumbles before, I'm sure, and I'm going to point some more out right now, as I do love to criticize myself then try to justify it.

I am writing this all out of order. I need to start being more diligent. More punctual. I will try to write daily, or at least in proper sequence, from now on.

It was yesterday that Alfred had his odd moment, I set up my pleasant story telling idea, and Alfred and I exchanged stories. The previous chapter was half written after Alfred told me his story, starting with the exact story Alfred told me. Written in 3rd person, you see? Good for discerning things like that. I wanted to write that as quickly as I could to preserve detail, and afterwards, realized my fault. I filled in the rest of the day's events, and hoped that it would be all right.  
Personally, I love the break in the story. It's chaotic, artistic, in a way. A pretty mistake.

Now, here I am, ruining my possible genius. Oh well, it is the way of the world.

Another thing. The night Alfred and I exchanged our stories, I told him one that I've already written down- the one about my father, and my flag. I know why I wrote it like that, but I also know I cannot write it again, which makes this next section a bit difficult... I am no professional writer, despite my desire to become one. I don't know how they do it. I figure I could go back and erase it all, but... I don't have that many erasers.

So, for this next section, I will be writing down two stories, and around three breaks. But do realize, there were four stories actually told then.

Goodness, this must be confusing. Pardon me. (... I'm beginning to question who I am writing/talking to. Who are you?)

…

Coddled in my beloved plush blanket, of a lovely gray-violet hue, I rested my head against the arm rest of my too-short couch. My legs hung over the other end, but I did not mind. Alfred, sat in an arm chair not quite facing me, cocked a brow, observing my comfortable position.

"I thought you said you didn't like sleeping on the couch." He pointed out, and I heard the accusation in his voice. It appeared as though he would never give up my bed for just a simple fight.

"In comparison to my bed, Alfred, I don't like sleeping on the couch. Otherwise, yes, it is quite comfortable." My bed is perhaps one of the most comfortable beds known to man, but that is definitely a story for another time. I have caused enough confusion, of that I am certain.

We had just finished a movie entitled, "The Incredible Hulk". Alfred enjoyed it, as expected, but I felt disrespected in some way by the transitions and play of the movie. I felt as though Bruce may have had a bit more to his character, as did the Hulk, than was made clear.

But, as part of our new deal arranged by yours truly, it was now story time. I was waiting for Alfred to make the first move, and as soon as he tried to stand up and escape, I followed his actions precisely, stopping him dead in his sneaky little trying to get away tracks. I didn't even have to speak for him to groan and slump back down in his chair.

"Really? Come on, man, I thought you were kidding." He scowled.

"I don't kid, Alfred." I grinned. "Rock, paper, scissors, Alfred. We will see who goes first, best one out of one."  
At the end of our five second match, Alfred came out victorious. His grin traveled from one ear to the other, broad and smug. "Very well, Alfred," I leaned back, getting situated once again, but not quite as how I was previously. "But I think we will each be telling two stories tonight."

The look of sudden horror on his face allowed me to grin just as wide as he had as I began my tale(s, technically, but you know that).

…

The day was bright, my pace was brisk, like the breeze about me. I strolled to a place that I knew well, one that turned my grin upside down.

Yes, today was just one of those days. The Perky Corner day.

The day of suffering, the day of being cut through by the wind, the day I had to face very, very annoying customers. I call them customers, and I laugh to myself, just because. To say that I resent my occupation would be nothing short of a statement, a statement that I declare understated.

Oh, but especially on Perky Corner days did my animosity toward my job expand.

It was a drunk day in October, a day on this dreaded Perky Corner that I will never forget.  
A man I mistook for a boy approached me, eyes large and wary. The way he placed his feet told stories of uncertainty, his too-thin jacket speaking of poverty.

"Uh, uh," he approached me, and I returned his look of fear. I couldn't decide if he was going to point a gun at my head for some sort of offhanded gang initiation, or if he was going to embarrass himself and get me arrested.

Within a few minutes of speaking to him, I discovered something that brightened my day on Perky Corner.  
"You... Uh... Gotthestuff...?" He mumbled and I stared at him in sheer disbelief. My mind refused to process what had just been said to me, and I had to stumble over my own tongue in an effort to ask for him to say again.

"Never mind." He turned on his heels, shuffling off in an even more awkward way than what he had arrived in. I stared afterwards, hair tumbling in the infuriating wind that buffeted me from every angle.

Within a few moments, he was back, staring ruts into the ground. He didn't say a word, so I was the first to speak up. "Are you having issues, kid?" It was perhaps the most brainless thing I've ever said, but so be it.

Finally, this awkward creature glanced up, recognition in his eyes. "Er... Ivan, right?"

I was astounded that this person had correctly pronounced my name, so it took me a moment to reply. "Why, yes. And you?"  
"Kęstutis." He answered, and I gladly embraced the beauty of the name.

"Ah, what a gorgeous name. Good for you, Kęstutis." When his name rolled over my tongue, I suddenly liked him far better than before. Call it innate sensibility. Though he appeared a bit stunned by my compliment, so I continued without him. "So, what are you up to?"

I had come off a little too strong, for Kęstutis shrunk back. Most people don't understand my general comfort in the presence of strangers. I suppose that they do not scare me, but I scare them. It's a ridiculous notion, honestly, for I have done nothing to them, and they have done nothing to me. To what does suspicion belong?

"Er... A trade." He went back to mumbling, and I frowned, which only caused more of a recoil in the man with a gorgeous title.  
"A trade, you say? For what?"

"... For Feliks."

"I said what, not who- Wait, you said Feliks? Which Feliks?" I entered a state of hidden panic, slipping into an accent I rarely used anymore. "The one with long hair? Stupid looking green eyes? He usually wears bras?"

Kęstutis nodded. "Uh, yeah? I guess? Um... He said to meet you here."

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. This corner, by which so many passed, attracted no attention. No one wanted to pay any mind to my bafoonery, I suppose.

Feliks, on the other hand, was the reason I hated coming to this particular corner. He was perhaps the most homosexual man to exist, which I say in the most negative way. He lived by the bible written backwards and in seven different versions of Japanese, which means that he made no more sense than that sentence fragment. He was perhaps the number one reason why I wanted to walk into oncoming traffic, aside from Gilbert, that is. Ha, how I hate those two. Astonishing, really.

However... Feliks was also one of my best customers. He's also the only person who I refer to as such, so take that as you will. While he was the child of a rich corporate couple, he also smoked away the weekends and spent half his time in gay bars to deal with what he called, "A world of jerks he couldn't care less about". I know all this, because he went into detail about some convoluted backwards story about how he stubbed his toe that morning then fell out a window while serenading his adoring fans.

Voice muffled by my hands, I asked, "What's the trade this time? A lollipop?"

"Er, no..." I heard Kęstutis reach under his oddly crinkly jacket (I still wonder what his jacket was made from to this day), and I felt my heart drop as I realized what it was.

In his pale hands, was perhaps the nicest laptop I had ever seen. He had a somewhat sincere grin on his face, and I could tell that he was proud of... Having apparently carried the thing under his janky jacket this whole time.

"Fine." I snapped, snatching the laptop from his hands, beginning to walk off. Kęstutis stared after me, blank faced. "Uh... Aren't you going to trade me something too...?"

"In broad daylight? Yes, Kęstutis, I want to get arrested. Tell Feliks we'll meet at the usual spot." I rolled my eyes, trying to stuff the prized equipment somewhere under my layers as the other had done. I cringed under the cold touch of the plastic, but decided that enduring this temporary chill was worth it. Feliks wasn't smart enough to give me something that didn't work, this I knew from experience. So I could easily trust this device without even the slightest fear.

Shortly after I arrived, I told Gilbert about my prize (he had come to ask me for his share, and I had to explain to him where the money was). He became quite angered, both in that I had gotten a nice piece of equipment and that I had no money to give him. After I shrugged a few hundred times, Gilbert finally huffed and walked out, telling me that next time he was getting all the cash, and didn't I know that he had stuff to buy and people to pay, too?

Of course I did, but goodness me, seeing him so upset was worth not eating for a day or two.  
I met Feliks later that evening, at a locally owned frozen yogurt place. It was originally his idea to meet there, and I did like frozen yogurt, so I agreed. I dropped his order at the bottom of a cup which he promptly picked up, tucking the bag into his pocket and proceeding to get his yogurt. I had no fear of being spotted, for the people around these parts were not so opposed to my trade. It is an easier life than it used to be, I will say that.

And so concludes the day on Perky Corner, the one that I found to be least annoying of all.

…

Alfred looked at me from his seat with what I could only intense interest. "You know," he said between smacks of his lips (he was eating very chewy gummy bears, who's origin I am uncertain of). "You're pretty good at telling stories. They're kinda funny."

I was taken aback by his compliment, and I felt my face flush in the slightest way. For a budding writer to be told that their writing was 'pretty good'... This was surely the pinnacle of their entire life.

Then again, perhaps coming from Alfred it wasn't so full of meaning... On the contrary, perhaps it was. I had a feeling that there were some powerful gears in that head of his, that, once they had gotten started, could easily outrun many other's.  
"But you're telling me that you don't like what you do?" He butted rudely into my thoughts, and it was all I could do to reply. "No, Alfred, I do not. I did not choose it, after all."

"You didnt?" He stopped chewing his sugar creatures. "Then... How'd you get into it?" The expression on his face had darkened slightly, and I pondered the thoughts in his head, trying to connect a telepathic signal and decipher them.  
"Well, Alfred... When I first moved here, I had no job, and my roommate, who had the most incredible connections I've ever seen, got me this job. It stuck, because she wouldn't let me do anything else."  
Alfred thought for a moment. "So... You were forced into it."

I shrugged. "You could say that, but I am not so unhappy Alfred. I know the other people who do what I do. Most are not so bad as they might be portrayed, you know... Many have families that they support through this line of work, and they don't really want to hurt anyone. They are not like crazy teenagers looking for the next high or gunfight. I am not like that. I merely live and do as I do, and I am happy how it is. Sure, there could be better, but this is simple and that is how I prefer it."  
Alfred nodded slowly, his gentle acceptance filling me with joy.

He quickly shattered that joy with a few choice words, which riled my skin in the most particular way. "So you don't like to think too much, then?" It was a challenge, I could see it in his deep eyes. Narrowing my own coiled eyes, I retorted, "Alfred, the reason I am here is because I thought too much. Now, carry on with your tale(s), would you?"  
"Sure thing, commie. Sure thing."

…

Alfred proudly stood near the exit of the McDonald's, awaiting his driver with a plucky grin. In his hands was perhaps the most magnificent Hot Wheels car he had ever laid eyes on: it was a dragon morphed with a car, threatening any other racers who dare challenged it with a fiery death. Alfred pretended to drive it on an invisible racetrack suspended in the air, swerving past others, dodging obstacles. It passed the finish line, first place, and Alfred quietly cheered for his beloved car, dancing a victory dance fit for such a champion.

"Alfred, you silly, what are you doing?" Broken from his celebration, Alfred looked up at who had interrupted him with slight irritation. "I'm racing." He said, as though it were painfully obvious.

"Ooh, are you now?" The man took Alfred's free hand, opening the door to the restaurant, and guiding him out. "Who won? Couldn't have been you, right?"

Alfred scoffed, declaring, "Of course it was me! I'm the best racer, ever!"

"Oh, my mistake." The man opened the door of his large, dark SUV, encouraging Alfred to climb in the back. "You'll forgive me, won't you?"

With a smirk, Alfred buckled his seat belt, shaking back and forth as his elder got into the front seat. "Maybe." Then, he gasped, catching a glimpse of a bunch of napkins in the front passenger seat. "Hey! You're a napkin napper!" He accused, to which the other argued, "No I'm not! Those napkins are free property, don't you know?"

"I don't know nothing!" Alfred snapped back, though it was more playful than aggressive. "You're a stinky stealer!"  
"I am not." The man argued back, finally getting the large car out onto the road.

"Napkin napper, napkin napper!" Alfred chanted, folding his arms in mock anger. His little Hot Wheels car flew from its precarious perch as the car halted in front of a stop light, causing the young boy to cry out in true frustration. "Stupid stop lights! Why can't we just ignore them?"

"If I disobey traffic laws, then we would get in trouble with the police, or maybe even get into an accident and get hurt." Alfred scowled, not thinking that the explanation served as a fit justification.

"Hmph," he grunted, vainly trying to retrieve his champion from the depths of the car floor hell. "I would ignore them if I was driving."

"Which is why you aren't," the driver chuckled, pulling down the visor to keep the sun from his eyes.

"I think I should be, definitely." Alfred managed to get ahold of the dragon car, grinning proudly as he did so. Pulling back up, he looked up into the front of the car, a question on his lips. "Uh... What're you called again?"

"I've told you, you can just call me 'dad'. If you don't like that, you can call me whatever, as long as it isn't mean." Alfred scrunched his face in slight confusion. "You're so weird."

"You are, not me."

"Nu uh!" The boy boldly protested. "You're the one who doesn't know his own name!"

"Oh, I know it," the man glanced back at Alfred, expression odd. "It's just that you don't."

Confounded, Alfred remained silent in his seat. The finality in... Alfred decided on calling him, 'Brother', as 'Dad' felt wrong on his tongue, his brother's voice was a bit shocking. It wasn't spiteful or irritated, but it most certainly left the boy without a thought to express.

Still, what sort of sense was that? He didn't know his name, therefore he had to call him by another, something that did not belong to him? There he went again, stealing. It just didn't make any sense. Alfred huffed, gazing out the window, entertaining himself by reading billboards and scanning license plates. He knew it would be a while before he arrived home.  
By the time the two arrived home from their out-to-eat dinner, it was Alfred's bed time. He groaned and whined and made big statements, refusing to do this and that, but his oddly called brother had none of it.

"Go on!" He said, soft voiced. "You have things to do tomorrow! More lessons!"

Alfred crude out in anguish. "Lessons?! I _hate_ lessons!"

His brother, his caretaker, snorted. "You're only saying that to be difficult."

"No I'm not!" Alfred protested, yawning halfway through the sentence. Just as he was about to continue on his stubborn defiance, something caught his eye. There was a stupidly tall bureau, it was almost an impractical piece of carved wooden furniture, that well guarded a door. It covered up the entire thing, looking almost like a bookshelf of drawers, from ceiling to floor, and only someone who had seen the door before would know it was there. Alfred, naturally curious and keenly attentive, knew very well what was hidden behind the bureau. What he did not know, however, was what lay further beyond. It was his natural born duty to discover this. His knowledge to sleuthing was about as good as it was to discovering hints in the first place, and Alfred knew he would have to start out small, and pick out tiny details. Right now, as he was trying to escape his bed time prosecution, would surely be the best time to ask a few small questions.

"Hey, uh... I'm gonna call you brother or something, okay?" Alfred paused his question, looking up at his elder with caution in his eyes.

"That's fine, Alfred. What is it?" His brother stopped, bending down to be eye to eye with the younger person.  
"Um..." Alfred turned to face the wall upon which the door was hidden, pointing to a peculiar spot on the wall, just barely visible by the bureau. "What's with the weirdo color here? Looks kinda like someone smashed a tomato there and didn't clean it up very good to me..."

His brother's face paled. "It's nothing, Alfred. Now come on." The man shoved the child forward a bit, getting him well on his way to his room. "Stop stalling. I told you, we have things to do tomorrow. I don't want you to be cranky and tired."

Alfred sighed. "It's totally something," he muttered, hopping into his room, and right up into his bed. His brother followed close, tucking the boy in securely, planting a small kiss on his head.

"Alright, good night Alfred. Sweet dreams!" The door shut with a click, Alfred scooting down into his blankets. He pulled his small stuffed cat close, and shut his too-blue eyes.


	9. Chapter 9: Bumblefuck

**A/N: Well well well, what have we here? An update?! IMPOSSIBLE!**

 **Oh yeah, I took a nice long hiatus there. Sorry about that whole deal guys, honestly, I should've come back sooner. I'll try not to do that again, yeah?**

 **Anyway, this chapter... is pretty chill. It could've been more exciting, I guess... but that is not the nature of my story. What this chapter has is some character development, for several characters, and honestly, there is no reason it took me this long to write. I just cant explain my ways, I suppose.**

 **Hey, shoutout to the person who helped me write a good portion of this chapter! Her name is Sarah, and she is the one I am writing this whole shabang for! You'll see her character in the middle of this chapter... this chapter, which totalled at approximately 10,200 words. HOLY SHIT, THATS A LOT! Heheh, I hope that makes up for my hiatus, you guys! I told ya, I wont give up on this story, no sir. Got too much going into it.**

 **Oh, and before I sign off- Watch out for the very last bit of this chapter. It marks the beginning of the true tale being told here.**

 **See you guys next chapter, WOO!**

 _ **Chapter 9: Bumblefuck**_

"So," I murmured after hearing Alfred's oddly told tale. "You live out in Bumblefuck, Egypt then?"

He stared at me, tired and unamused. "No...? What the hell does that even mean?"

I grinned humorously. "You're a native to the Atlanta area, aren't you?"

Ah, the smile on my face must've been contagious. I saw the corners of Alfred's lips turning too, but he resisted it like a bitten man in a zombie apocalypse. I'm not sure of why, but this only further amused me as I went on.

"It's a term coined by the people here, meaning the areas outside of Atlanta... Where you can drive for miles and miles, out in Bumblefuck, never to see another recognizable town. So you're a country boy, honkey tonkey and speakin' English like Jesus did?"  
A snort exited his nose, a bit wet for my taste, might I mention. "You're one to talk, jerk off."

This time, I laughed, my late night mind elated at the comparison of myself and... Well. Early morning me is not nearly as amused by the comparison, and is avoiding it. Let's put it like that.

"I am, Alfredo, but that doesn't change the facts. You are a country boy, surely."

"Hardly. I mean, I wish... Sure, I lived out there, but I guess I wasn't really raised like that. Nah, my brother... Uh, yeah, can't say he was too southern..." He glanced away, as though ashamed to have been raised by a damned Yankee. Ha, serves him right (oh, I don't mean it... Quite the opposite, really).

"So that explains your lacking accent?" I leaned on my hand, keeping one eye open at a time to give the other a bit of rest.

"Uh... That's weird." Alfred had noticed my behavior, and he was giving me a peculiar look, in the sense that he didn't seem to mind despite his comment. He's just as peculiar, so I don't think he has any right to speak. "But yeah, I guess so." The grin that corrupted his face took me by surprise, and both of my eyes were open in an instant. "But listen to this:"

The voice that came out of that man's mouth, lingering in his vocal cords, air strung up from the depths of his lungs, left me recoiling as though I had shot a gun I hadn't been prepared to shoot. It was the richest country accent I had ever heard. I was somewhere between disgusted, horrified, and star struck. Why, this was the kind of magical ability rumored in cave scrolls and ancient myths! I can't even remember what he said, I was too focused on the manipulation of his voice, the slight twist of the tongue that triggers this phenomena.

I stared. "Never do that again."

What he did next was far, far worse than I could have ever imagined. I would've taken water boarding, complementary of the CIA, back in my soviet days on suspicions of espionage over this any day. Anything was better than this.

Pinching his nose ever so comically, Alfred belted out in a fully developed Wisconsin accent, "I like cheese nips!"

First of all, cheese nips are horrid off brand cheese-its...

Second of all, my ears haven't stopped bleeding. All I heard was foreign words and screeching nails across chalk boards, hundreds of them. All just dying to shred my inner ear canal, all succeeding...

Third of all, what a stupid thing to say. Does he know anything about Wisconsin? He could've at least said something typical, like "WISCONSIN!" Or even more horrifying, "I'm FROM Wisconsin!"

Oh goodness... I cringe just thinking about this. And it won't stop haunting me. It festers and froths at the back of my mind, I don't think I can get across to you how horrible this moment in time was.

So, instead of replying (I wanted to spare him my agony, because that's all I would've been able to get out), I grabbed my dear cat, my blanket, and hiked right out of the hostile area, into my own bed. Finally.

Judging by the stunned silence, I think that was the very best choice I could have made.

With cotton balls carefully placed to sop up the blood leaking from my ear canals, I buried my face in my pillow, and tried my best to sleep. Which wasn't hard to accomplish, actually.

That is, until, at precisely 1:14 Ante Meridian, when I flipped onto my side, and found none other than Alfred, wrapped in a blanket separate from my comforter (oh yes, because what a travesty it would be for my arm to touch his while we are sharing the same bed on his accord. His mind, it is something I cannot grasp).

My first thought was something akin to, "So that's what's wrong with my covers." And my second... Well, it was more of a spoken statement.

"Oh, you log."

I... I couldn't have make this up if I truly wanted to. Which I don't. Saying things like that make me feel... Silly. Saying- er, writing that word makes it worse.

Thankfully, I can say that Alfred has no inkling of those words that I so unfortunately uttered. In an ironic twist, this is because they are true. He might as well be a damned log as far as I can tell. Sleeping in the country will do that to you, I suppose.

So, terrified of my own threat come to reverse-life, I remained awake for a while. I don't know why, perhaps it was because I just wasn't used to sleeping next to anyone besides Siberia.

Or, perhaps...

I used to sleep next to Veña. Oh, how curious, our relationship. Actually, I would compare it to the Gilbert and Eliza's relations. Except... Ours had no sex or general happiness.

Veña forced me to sleep next to her, honestly. She said, "It's the right thing to do! Guests should be treated with the utmost hospitality!" I shot her a dumb look in response to her backwards statement, and naturally, she did something violent in retaliation. Though, after I got over myself concerning the issue of sleeping next to a woman voted most likely to be a necromancer in the witch school she attended, I found that it wasn't that bad. After all, when you shove your body so close to the edge that you feel as though you are deftly defying gravity, you forget the other person is there at all. Not to mention her bed is ridiculously comfortable.  
She once told me the story on how she got it... It was a trade, she said, for some incredibly potent Mexican heroin or something. She was drunk (and... So was I) when she told me the story, so I can't exactly give more detail. It sounded far more impressive drunk than it did any other time, but that doesn't matter. For this mattress, I would've given more.

Ah, but I ramble. Yes, so Veña made me sleep on the extraordinary queen size bed (which I don't know how she got in here in the first place (I'm supposing that heroin helped the process in some way)) right next to her, and it was only commonplace for something to go wrong.

There are two reasons why I do not like sleeping next to people anymore (yes, I was bluffing Alfred. Had he tried taking my bed before I was in it, he would've succeeded stupendously):

The lesser reason: I woke up next to a very, very dead Veña, staring at me through my pupils and deep into the crevices of my soul. As soon as I woke up, I passed right back out, slipping from my edge and onto the floor. There is no getting over waking up next to a dead person, and never again will I stare into dead eyes. It's appalling, lurid, repulsive...

Now for reason number two. A reason that has always haunted me, after an incident when I was younger. Something from which I doubt anyone could ever hope to recover. The phrase, "To sleep with someone."

Just writing it down has my fingers tearing at my eyes; it is so revolting to read.

I had gone over to a friend's house, a very dear, close friend... Though her parents had little money, I still thought that she was the richest person to ever live. She had such a full culture, a brilliant mind! More than I could wish for. Of course, she had only her bed. And, being young, so graciously naive, we had never heard that dreaded phrase. We didn't understand its meaning. Oh, I wish it had stayed like that.

So, succeeding the stay at her place, the sharing of her bed, I went around and proudly declared that we had slept together. Innocent enough for a young child, as many presumed. But I remember the flash in their eyes, that split second of horror as they saw the euphemism in full force.

Of course, my father pulled me to the side after embarrassing our family publicly one too many times, and explained to me the true meaning of what I was saying. How the literal meaning of those words no longer exists in any sane mind.

My world fell apart for a solid month. My poor, ten year old mind couldn't conceive the atrocity I had committed, what I had implied...! To so many! GAH!

After explaining to my friend why I had fallen into a sudden depression, she grew red around the cheeks, but said it was okay. She was just happy that I didn't keep on saying it like it was funny, I guess. (I imagine Gilbert would say something like, "Not a fuckboy in the making, eh? Surprising." Fuck him).

To draw a conclusion, I am desperately terrified of ever making the mistake of saying that I slept with someone ever again. Because it had never meant what it should.

It is a horrible, disgraceful truth. One I must live with.

Trapped next to someone who could drag this truth upon me again, I believe I had a few miniature panic attacks. I don't handle stress like this well. And therefore, I couldn't go back top sleep for a while. So, instead, I busied myself by trying to decipher all I could with a human's limited 'night vision'. My pupils did their job well, and I was actually able to make out a lot.

The old posters and pictures on the wall, the fake grain on the door, the pattern of the roof.

On the very corners of Alfred's face, I could see where his hair would normally cover the faint scars of acne... Perhaps he was younger than he claimed? I hoped not. That notion just gives off an unpleasant feel.

Imagined on the bridge of his nose were those glasses in the Texas case. I wondered if he actually needed them, or if they were part of that odd fashion trend where people wore fake glasses... Though I thought only middle school whores did that.

And finally, I noticed something that may have just been my imagination. A few bundles of his hair... The tips were far darker than the rest. Like I said, it may have been my eyes tricking me, but I swear, it looked like the remnants of ancient dyes trapped in his follicles. How I didn't notice this in the daylight is beyond me, but perhaps I hadn't ever been close enough to tell.

Another thought occurred to me as I studied the oddity, the stories he had told me. I couldn't help but get the sense that Alfred had been raised by a megalomaniac, a killer, some crazy person. Most certainly not a brother as he called him. This person who's name has not been said... Either I am living and sleeping next to (see? That phrase will not plague me!) a bred psycho, or Alfred is pulling my leg something fierce. But it doesn't add up; Alfred seems sensible enough, and I just can't imagine him running around with a knife without him ending up stabbing himself by accident.

Regardless of all this, whatever truth or fiction Alfred is telling me, it is entertaining enough for me to humor him. Yes, I won't send him off in a paddy wagon... Yet. I must know more about this... Brother of his.

Surely it is a story worth hearing. Otherwise, I'll have wasted time that would've been drowned, and that is most unfortunate.  
Upon summing up my midnight rambling, I turned over, scooted away from the edge, and did my best to sleep again.

The sun rose, as did I. Slipping from my spot with the ease of a fish off a deck, I carefully splashed down onto the floor, landing sorely on my side. Gingerly mending my position, I got onto my knees, and peered over the bed. Alfred was still asleep, in that hangover sort of sleep, that you might never wake up from. It seemed as though this would be one of his sleeping in days. I still didn't understand the pattern he had, some days sleeping forever, others, hardly sleeping at all.

Deciding not to take my chances, I scooted away, using my knees as replacement feet, until I reached the door. Siberia was waiting for me, wondering what was taking so long. She clawed at the exit, impatient for me to open it. When I finally did, she shoved out and resumed her normal, laid back manner.

I scooted right on out, careful to shut the door without a sound. After assuring myself that I hadn't woken anyone up, I eased my knees, and got into my rightful standing position.

I suppose that I don't like waking people up. After I was decked in the face by Veña for just that reason, I am simply wary of it.  
First things first: bitter coffee, just how Veña would've liked it. I have to honor her spirit, after all, to be haunted by that woman might just turn me into a damned ghost as well. (I also wrote up the above chapter, but that's a bit fourth wall breaking, is it not?)

Next... Clothes. My running gear, slim fit and comfortable. Yes, I run every other day, as I like to keep in shape. Now, you might be thinking: "Didn't you call you call yourself fat earlier?" Yes. Well, sort of... Not really. Not in that context, at least. Fat, as in, I have extra body weight that isn't necessarily necessary. That doesn't mean I don't want it there... I think it is wise to have a supply of energy on hand in case I have to skip eating for a little while. Don't hassle me about it, I know exactly what I'm doing.  
Just as I swung open the door, I was met with misfortune. Gilbert.

He seemed rather surprised that the door had opened without him acting upon it, but nonetheless, it was open.  
"What?" I asked without giving him a chance to speak.

Gilbert took a moment to recuperate from the horrifying event he had just experienced, oh the humanity, before saying, "Eliza's been up my ass, as usual-"

"Would you want her anywhere else?" I cut him off, smirking, and he scowled. His look shut me up, and he continued.

"As I was saying, she's been nagging me, it's about Alfred. She said she only saw him out of the room once. I mean, I don't care what the kid does, but she's always worried about everyone, you know... Is he okay?"

The look in Gilbert's eyes clearly contradict iced what he had said: he was most certainly worried, in one way or another. Understandable, he wasn't a heartless man, probably had more heart than I did, but I find that hardly valuable. Then again, I find Gilbert less than valuable.

Yes, but this street hardened man was worried about some young runaway, and for what? Being an introvert? ... Alfred didn't seem like an introvert, he is rather loud and is brimming with childish energy, but still, who was I to challenge his state of being?

Gilbert shook his head, seeing that I didn't reply to his inquiry. "A-anyway, Eliza told me to get my ass up today and take you two out. Or at least, take Alfred out. She just suggested that you came along, God only knows why. But it's your choice."

A foggy yawn from behind me distracted me from asking Gilbert who the hell he thought he was asking me to just get into a car with him and go somewhere, and I looked back behind me. A few feet away stood Alfred, half hunched over, rubbing his left eye to dislodge the sleep. "What's all the hub-bub?" He mumbled through a yawn, stretching his arms out, gently battering the walls as he did so.

"Gilbert wants to throw us in his trunk and ditch us in the woods!" I announced, and Alfred straightened up, clearly taken aback by this news.

"S-seriously?" He looked past me, meeting Gilbert's disgruntled face in sheer shock. It must've been too early for his common sense to work.

"No, Alfred," Gilbert huffed (I think it's hilarious how mad I can make him). "Eliza is just worried, she wants you out of the house more, I guess. So she made me get up and come down here to wake you up and take you for a ride."

"Oh." Alfred stared at me for a moment, then turned back to his friend. "That... That makes more sense. Sure, I guess... If it'll make her happy. I'd hate to see her mad."

Gilbert shuddered. "You would, I assure you... And what about you, commie?" He asked me, and I stuck up a brow.

"If it'll make Eliza happy, I suppose." I finally gave way, and Alfred grinned. He was suddenly very much awake.

"Aw sweet!" He cheered. "Lemme go get changed." He dashed back in, and under two minutes flat, he has rejoined us, rip roaring and ready to go.

Gilbert started to head off towards his car, the spring breeze buffeting his odd hair. "Come on then! We're burning daylight!"  
Alfred followed like a giddy colt, and I, not so willingly. I did follow, however. After Alfred yelled shotgun right in my face, I tossed myself into the backseat of the car, becoming completely aware of how awkward my long legs could be in tight situations.  
"So..." I fiddled with a bit of thread from my shirt. "Where're we going, then, Mr. Navigator?"

Gilbert leaned back over the median in the car, grinning at me in a way I hate the most, how unsettling of a look it was. "Youll see."  
And off we went, regrets and misfortune in tow.

"Why the shit are we at a book store?"

"Because the Nazi apparently DOES have feelings, Alfredo."

I watched the silver sedan speed off, stranding Alfred and I at a not so unfamiliar place. I was actually quite pleased with how things had turned out: Gilbert and I had argued over exactly where we were going, Alfred sat in shotgun quietly, sinking down and trying to figure out why the two of us sounded like an elderly couple who should've gotten a divorce twenty years back, and then he finally spoke up and broke our argument to pieces. He made some comment to Gilbert, which I did catch, and Gilbert just busted out laughing. He shot something back at Alfred, and the young man started snickering too. I merely sat back and gazed out the window, glad to be saving my breath for more important things. (Like what, Ivan? Don't be so stuck up, me!)

And then, when I least expected it, we jerks to a halt, swerving into a parking lot. Gilbert kicked us out, wished us the best, and took off.

And so, Alfred looked upon the fated building before us, and demanded why were there.

"This is one of my favorite places to go, Alfred! It's so serene inside..."

The look he was giving me was not so assuring that he understood the benefits of this place. "Hey, he could've dropped us off at a gay bar. And no one wants that, hm?" I began to stride forwards, actually excited to go in.

"What are you so peppy for?" He caught up to me quick, a sour expression staining his otherwise perfectly fine face.

"Why, Alfred, this is my second home. It's wonderful here! I can drink all the spiked coffee I want here, so long as no one finds out." Pushing open the door, I added in a hushed voice, "Not to mention, I love talking to a few people here. Especially Sarah, she's kind and quiet and easy to talk to. Would you be so kind as to not annoy or startle her, Alfred?"

Alfred gave me an incredulous look. "And why the hell would I do that anyway?" He asked, stepping past me.  
I grinned, shutting the door softly behind us. "You have your ways." Alfred simply walked off from me, acting mad, but I could a sly smile peeking.

Naturally, I went around and gathered a few books, picking up some from a few known authors, and a couple from some unknown authors. I loved skimming through them, just observing the style and diction of individual people... It helped me as an author.  
Alfred was off, looking at some smaller novels, a few comics as well I presumed. And just as I was about to sit down, I spotted a familiar face. Softly smiling, I waved. "Oh, hello, Sarah!"

Sarah was most certainly kind hearted, a soft person, I suppose one could say. She didn't seem to have a mean bone in her body, though I hadn't ever seen her really upset. No, I only ever talked to her here, at this small, locally run book store, nestled in the artsy section of Atlanta. Anyhow, she was a delight to chat with, to vent to, and I loved trying to help her out occasionally. It made me a bit sad to hear some of the things she faced, but regardless, I admired her strength in getting past them.  
It was no surprise to me that she was here, as I gingerly approached her, tipping an imaginary hat. She often came down to this very store in the early morning, to relax and whatnot.

"Hello, Ivan, " she responded to my greeting softly, a delicately small smile on her lips. She wasn't too surprised to see me here, either, as it seemed that every time she came, I was here. Or at least that was what she had told me during one of our chats. It was almost like a twist a fate each time we met, but that was to believe some higher being was making this happen, and Sarah had said she doubted that. She shuffled the small stack of books in her hands as she looked up at me, having to crane her neck a bit to meet my eyes. She a measly 5'0" next to me, poor thing. "I haven't seen you in some time, how have you been?" She asked politely, with a small tilt of her head, smile still in place.

"Oh, very nice, thank you for asking." I gestured for her to set all of her books down, afterall, thick stacks of paper could be quite cumbersome in their own surprising way. "And how've you been, dear?"

She shrugged her shoulders as she set her books down onto the table we were standing next to. "I've been alright. Not much has changed since we last saw each other." She sat herself down, gesturing for me to do the same before speaking again. "Work is stressful as usual and family I'd doing fine."

I pulled a chair out from under the designated table, accidentally bringing it a little too far out. Deciding that I could live with it, I sat down, perhaps a few inches further away than I should've been. A bit awkward, but I ignored it and listened to my friend instead of worry about myself, and the problem I could've easily fixed.  
"Ah, well, it's good to hear that nothing new has come up, and your perseverance is admirable. It really is good to be talking again, yes?"

I couldn't help but to be so kind, and while flattery isn't usually what I would include in my normal dialogue, Sarah, along with a few others, were exceptions. I suppose that the only explanation I can provide would be that I enjoy seeing her smile.  
"As for me," I went on, figuring that she would be rather pleased if I got right into a more curious topic. "Gilbert has given me a new roommate." What a weird thing to say. Lovely.

"Oh man," she couldn't help but laugh softly at the notion, knowing that I had preferred living alone, or at least she once mentioned that I gave off such an impression. I wasn't sure if my given impression was right or wrong, but I choose to believe her impression of me. "How is that going? Are they driving you crazy? Or are you enjoying their company?" She leaned back in her seat as she focused on me, her hands sitting idly in her lap.

I considered this for a moment, captured by the thought. Did I find solace in Alfred's company...? Or did he annoy me to no end...? After my moment of thought, I shrugged, meeting Sarah's eyes.

"I am not sure, honestly. He is definitely better than Veña, because he does not batter me with household objects, and he appreciates my tacos rather than cursing at me for slight mistakes. Also, he is quite interesting. For example: I think he is scared of socks. I threw a pair at him once, and he screamed." Craning my neck, I glanced around. I spotted Alfred rather quickly, he appeared to be deeply examining some novella a few rows away. "There he is," I pointed his way, looking back to Sarah. "His name is Alfred. Looks a little bit like a noodle, if you ask me."

She had nodded along when I went to explain how he had was dealing with Alfred, so when I pointed him out, she leaned slightly to the side of her seat so she would be able to look at him. She must've thought he had a nice face, because she pouted slightly when I called him a noodle. "Ivan, that's not very nice." She scolded me. Then, she looked back at Alfred for a brief moment before looking towards me, a smile bubbling on her lips as a giggle began to escape her. "I guess he kind of does look like a noodle from this distance."

"See?" I exclaimed in a soft manner. "I told you he does..." I was more than pleased that Sarah had agreed with me, but just as I was about to continue and explain the nickname that Gilbert had given to Alfred, the young man caught my attention. He was doing something I hadn't quite expected.

Alfred was buying the small book he had spent so long looking through.

With a puzzled look on my face, I turned back to Sarah. "I... I honestly didn't think he had any money on him. It is odd to say, but I suppose I just didn't figure he really had any money of his own." Leaning in a bit, I added, "I thought Gilbert had been giving him his rent portion, he doesn't have a job that I know of." Looking back, I now realize that sounded like some paranoid conspiracy theorist.

Sarah mulled what I said for a moment before offering her thoughts. "Well, maybe he has money set aside? I know when ever I get paid, I take some of it and put it into my savings account in case I ever need it. Like for emergencies. He most likely has money that he doesn't use for rent, because it's not enough to pay for it." Sarah shrugged her shoulders, a single finger tapping at her chin as she spoke, her blue eyes looking over at Alfred in question.

I scratched at my cheek, and nodded. "Yes, that makes more sense. I should be more careful, jumping to conclusions. Bad habit." As I looked back at Alfred, I realized that he was squinting his eyes at my friend and I, as though he was try in to decipher our conversation from across the store. Bag in hand, he replaced his look with a small smile, and approached with a rapid pace. I took a moment to watch, and observe his stride (I am still trying to figure out how he moves so quietly), before addressing Sarah once more. "He's spotted us, it seems." I chuckled to myself; it sounded like we were discussing an opposing force in a war.

She laughed softly. "So it would seem." She sat up straighter in her seat as she watched the blonde approach at a rapid pace. "He's fast, isn't he?"

Alfred slowed a bit, before coming to a complete stop just before our small table. He scrutinized both of us, as would a thief upon prized jewels. "Did you two know that's there's not any macaroni here?" He muttered, suspecting us to have duped him, but I decided to ignore his suspicion and get on with introductions.

"This," I said, laying my hand towards the woman across from me. "Is Sarah. And Sarah, this is Alfred."

Alfred grinned wide, his earnest attitude a bit distressing. I hadn't ever seen him so chipper. "Hello, m'am, what's up?" he greeted, sticking his hand out for a shake.

Sarah took his slightly larger hand in her smaller one, giving him a smile. "Hello, Alfred. I'm just talking to my friend Ivan here, that's all. And what are you up to?" She was quite polite, as was her way with anybody she didn't know. Well, she was polite with everybody, but she always especially kind when she first met someone as to not give reason for them to be rude. "I love macaroni as well, but sadly they don't sell any food here except for pastries."

Alfred frowned. "They don't? Hmm, I wonder when they'll see the error in their ways..." Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, he went on to answer her question. "As for what I'm doing? Well, originally, I was bitching to this other guy because I didn't really want to be here, but I think he was deaf or something because he just sort of walked off. Anyway, he left this book behind." Alfred rooted through his bag, pulling out a rather pretty looking book. "It's Edgar Allen Poe's poems and stuff! I hear that they were cool, so naturally I took advantage of this coincidence. And look at the thing!" He gestured to the front, then flipped the book over. A sprawling shiny Raven, which clashed with the otherwise matte cover of the book, stretched from the front, across the bind, then to the back. "It's wicked looking!"

I shook my head, amused at the exchange. "You are too easy to please, Alfred."  
"Not true!" He argued. "I'm not pleased that there isn't any macaroni, so ha!"

Sarah watched silently as Alfred talked, she looked surprised that his lips didn't fly off each time they opened. But, she still nodded along with his story and she did seem to be pleased the book he showed her. "I love his poems. I memorized his poem 'Annabelle Lee' for a school project a few years ago." She gently held out her hands, silently asking if she could hold his book.

Observing Sarah's soft spoken actions, I wondered exactly what she was going to do once she got the book.

Alfred didn't think twice, gladly placing the book in my friend's out stretched hands without hesitation.  
"I've, er, never really done any projects on them, I guess... Never really seen 'em before." He chuckled in an almost sheepish way, almost embarrassed to admit it.

He then turned his face towards me, an interesting look in his eyes. I was now more concerned about what he was up to, with his lack of Edgar Allen Poe knowledge, and love for macaroni and cheese.

And though odd gaze passed, my arisen suspicion did not.

Sarah flipped through the crisp pages of the book, hard and stiff from never being used. She brightened as though she recognized a few of the poems as she flipped the pages, before stopping on the page that held the poem 'Annabelle Lee'. Her fingers brushed over the familiar lines, it coming back to her with ease. She mumbled a few of the lines to herself before looking up, finding Alfred and I looking at her, causing her face to flush up with embarrassment. She closed the book gently before handing it back to Alfred, face a light pink as she cleared her throat. "I-I just wanted to look through the it. Thank you for letting me"

"Nah, that's not a problem!" Alfred reassured her, taking the book. "I was taught how to share when I was five!" He then glanced back at me, his odd gaze having returned.

"Uh... Ivan?" He poked my shoulder, as if saying my name wasn't enough.

"Yes?" I responded, giving him a sideways glance.

"How much longer are we gonna be here?" His question made it clear what answer he wanted in return.

"It's too early to run home right now-"

"We have to run?!"

"Yes, Alfred. As I was saying, it's too early, and I'm also wanting to continue talking to Sarah. It's kind of rude to just walk out on someone, isn't it?" I raised my head in an innocent way, and Alfred scowled.

"First of all, the too early thing sounds like bullshit, second of all, I wasn't just gonna ditch her! I just..." He looked off. "My legs are tired. I wanna sit."

I gestured to another table, which had two chairs lie the rest of the tables in the small book store. "Get a chair, then."

Alfred gave me a dumbfounded look. "I can't just... Take one of those chairs! Because then that table will only have one seat, and someone else will have to take another chair and so on and so on...! Don't you see?"

I just... Stared. "No. I don't."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Okay, whatever. Lemme have your chair."

"But this is my chair. I sat here first." I argued, though with a smile. Alfred's tendency to take my things amused me for some reason.  
The thief didn't let up. "Seriously, I wanna sit down. And you've been sitting for a long time. So shoo."

I shook my head. "No, I'm afraid that I will not be moving."

Alfred looked at Sarah, shaking his head in a joking way. "Clearly, he didn't learn to share."

"I did learn to share," I corrected. "I just think you should get over your chair anxiety."

"I'll sit on you." Alfred threatened. I grew a bit tense, because I knew that his threats were rarely empty.

"Please, Alfred, just go and get another chair."

"Nope. Last chance."

"Alfred, I swear, if you sit on me-" And then he sat on me. It turns out the awkward space I didn't correct prior was just enough room for him to make his move. I floundered and struggled beneath him, hissing, "You are like lead!"

He snickered, shooting back, "You callin' me fat?"

"I'm calling you dense!" I shoved against his back, throwing him off. Frowning, I stood, and gave him full rights to the chair. With a smug grin, he pranced right past me, taking my seat like a king would take his throne.

I turned and grabbed another chair, pulling it perpendicular tothe other chairs. Sitting in it, I flashed Alfred a dirty look, before turning back to Sarah. "Yes. I've decided now, he does irritate me."

Sarah gave a breathy laugh at the whole situation, then gestured with a finger for me to lean forward. I huffed, giving Alfred another dirty glare, before leaning forth and letting her whisper whatever she had to say. "While cute in its on way, Alfred comes off as being a total ass," she giggled then pulled back to sit up in her seat, placing a hand over her mouth as she contoured to laugh, her face flushing up again with color. I leaned back too, amused by her behavior. After a moment, she finally put her hand down back onto the table, smile still in place. "If you two need to leave then it's fine, Ivan. We can always talk another time."

"But are you sure, Sarah? Honestly, I have nothing else to do, and I haven't seen you for a while." A while, being just a few days, maybe a week. I hadn't kept count. Still, visiting with friends was quite the celebrated event in my slightly depressing household.  
Alfred scrunched down in his seat, his attitude changing within a moment. "Er, I didn't mean to.. Make it seem like I really... Wanted to go." He tried to explain, but his small words hardly reversed his original intention.

"Then what is it?"

Alfred shrugged, looking away. "I guess I just don't want to be out. Sorry, Sarah."

Looking him up and down, I said, "There is something wrong with you."

"Gee, thanks." Alfred huffed.

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant your attitude changed suddenly, indicating that something is wrong."

"Oh. What?" He reverted back to his normal state, and I nodded. "Good."

"Yes, I'm sure." My friend smiled softly, nodding her head. "I'm sure it won't be long before our next meeting." She stood up from her seat grabbing her small pile of books that she planned on purchasing. "It was nice meeting you Alfred. And Ivan, it's always a pleasure talking to you." With that, she placed a complementary goodbye kiss on my the top of my head, and then she twirled around, going to buy her books and then leave.

Alfred watched her go, a gleam of confusing marring his normally clear eyes. "She's the one who's gonna walk out?" He asked, and he sounded rather stricken. It occurred to me that he probably felt at fault for this.

"Do not worry, Alfred. Sarah has a lot on her mind, and she tends to come and go abruptly. It isn't a bad thing, it's just who she is." I attempted to console him, but he just shot an even odder look my way.

"So she doesn't care?"

"Alfred! That is not what I said!" I scolded him, and he just huffed. "What, then?"

Sighing, I stood, taking my stolen chair and placing it back to where it belonged. "As I said, Alfred. She comes and she goes as she pleases. It's nothing wrong with us, nothing wrong with her. It's just how it is. Now come on," I began to move towards the exit, waving for him to follow. "We should go back. And don't forget your book."

"I'm not gonna forget it!" He said, glancing haphazardly at the book on the table. He had clearly forgotten it.

I stepped foot into the bright sunlight, and Alfred followed close behind. "You ready to run?" I asked with a smirk, and he groaned rather loudly.

It was only around noon by the time we got back. I felt incredible, as I usually did after my runs. I was hot and my skin was sticky with sweat, but my muscles felt free, energized and oxygenized. Alfred, surprisingly enough, kept up with me the whole way through. He was a bit short of breath, but he was not dragging his feet or wheezing. I felt a bit proud of him, as I had observed his great density first hand earlier. He certainly wasn't fat, nor was he very skinny, but he weighed far more than he appeared to, which left me in a bit of a confused state. As I had said, he was like a block of lead! I had to assume, after seeing him do well on the run (which was actually fairly far. I'll be honest, it was not easy, but that's what I had wanted anyhow) that he was actually fairly fit and protein dense. As in, muscular. Wouldn't have guessed it beforehand.

As we approached our building, a bright voice rang out above our heads. "And here come the front runners! Howdy, boys!" It was Elizaveta, peering down at us from atop her stairwell.

"Elizaveta!" I cheered, and Alfred tried to yell up too, but he hadn't quite caught enough breath yet. "What are you up to, way out in the wilderness like this?"

Eliza scoffed, "Gil got called down for baby sitting duty, I'm just waiting for him to get back. You two are lucky, coming back now, cuz I'm making a special treat for dinner." She smiled, before waving at us to head up.

"Dinner!" Alfred exclaimed, meeting me with suddenly bright eyes and limitless energy. "Oh hell yeah! Wait up Eliza, we're a comin'!" He charged forwards, taking the steps two at a time. I watched with raised eyebrows, my eyes trailing this odd blond bundle of excitement as he went upwards.

"Yo, Ivan! Back already?" Gilbert came up behind me, and I sighed. "Got lil Louis here with me today." The small child was bouncing around in Gilbert's firm hold, blabbing and fighting the air. His big brown eyes looked at as much as they could, leading me to grin at his small enthusiasm.

"Eliza told me that you had went to get him, Gilbert. She also mentioned something about a special dinner." I prompted, hoping that Gilbert might know something about this event. I didn't exactly show it, but I was just as excited by the meal as Alfred.

Gilbert, upon having a bit of his hair tugged, raised the small boy ahead of him. "Oh, why don't you tell him, Louis?" The boy screamed in delight, kicking his legs to and fro. Gilbert laughed and squeezed the boy in a rough hug a few times, which only made the child laugh right along with him. "Rakott krumpli, that's what she's making." I didn't know what that was, but I figured I'd find out soon enough. "And this little guy loves it! Ain't that right?" Stepping past me, Gilbert continued to talk to the young boy, something about running up the steps as fast as he could. I shook my head, wondering what a drug dealer was doing, half raising a child. It seemed, I thought to myself as I followed behind, that they were watching Louis more and more. Gilbert didn't mind a bit, and Eliza didn't care either, but I was a bit concerned. I hoped that the grandparents of this child wouldn't loose him like they lost their daughter. If Gilbert's word was good, they had a genuine love for the baby.

As I reached the top of the steps, I caught the final glimpse of Gilbert walking into his apartment, so I hurried right along. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open, stepping into the small hall. With the kitchen to my left, I looked in as I walked by, seeing the lady of the house preparing her dish. She was using a large baking pan, and I saw some potatoes, along with other important components of the meal right next to her. I couldn't quite tell what they were, because they were tucked into a bag. The potatoes, however, were being cleaned.

As soon as I reached the small living room, I dashed for the couch, collapsing. Perhaps I had over estimated my stamina... For I felt the effort put out in the run catch up to me. A bit of ruckus broke me from my daze, and within the moment, the living room was consumed in chaos. Alfred tumbled from another room, stumbling and laughing as he rushed out. Next came Louis, who looked damned and determined to catch up with his playmate. He cackled in an adorable way, just about to tackle Alfred, when Gilbert swooped in, snatching the kid up. "Gotcha!" He declared, but the boy wouldn't give up so easily. He smacked Gilbert on the nose, and the man cried out, falling down in a slow, pained way. He landed on his back, with Louis sitting on his chest.

"Ya got me!" Louis clapped his hands together, bouncing up and down. Gilbert wheezed dramatically each time the boy landed on his chest, and when the young one ducked off to investigate me for a moment, Alfred took his chance to jump in and catch Gilbert up in a headlock. "Heh, you're beat, old man!" The younger blond said, digging his knuckles playfully into Gilbert's hair. Tangled up, Gilbert had a bit of a hard time struggling free, though he hissed that he would never be beat all the while. Glancing up at Louis, who was explaining quantum physics to me in his baby language, he called out, "Loui, Loui, c'mere and gimme some back up, would ya?"

Louis clapped his hands and screamed in delight, approaching Alfred on slightly wobbly legs before battering him with small baby hands. Alfred loosened his grip on Gilbert, peering back at his attacker. "Oh, so you want some too, huh?" He gently cuffed the young boy over the head, accidentally knocking him over. Gilbert slipped free, about to tackle Alfred with all he had, when something else caught his attention. Louis had begun to bawl. He wasn't hurt, he had just decided to throw himself on the floor and soak up as much attention as possible. His guardian angle scowled at Alfred, who shrunk down and attempted to defend himself. "I swear I didn't smack him that hard, Gil, honest-"

"You gotta be more careful, Al. He's too little to be smackin' around, even if he smacks you around." Gilbert barked, making his point clear. Alfred scuttled up next to me, out of the other's way. Gilbert scooped up the adorable little attention hog, poking the kid in the nose. "Hey, tough guy. Nothin' happened." The baby stared at him, a bit confused by his lack of concern. "Nothin' happened. That doofus down there couldn't kill a fly if he wanted to. He didn't hurt you. Nothin' happened." However odd it may have been, his tactic worked. Louis calmed down completely, giggling and falling into the man's shoulder. A bit of motion caught my eye, and I saw Elizaveta peering around the corner of the kitchen door frame. She had a soft look in her eyes, and I couldn't help but crack a smile. Just as soon as she appeared, she left, unseen by the others in the room.

"Jeez," Alfred muttered my way, "I didn't hurt the kid! You saw, didn't you?"

I nodded. "Yes, Alfred, I saw. But you did knock him a little bit too hard, even if you didn't quite hurt him. And besides, Gilbert was not being mean, he was being correct. Trust me, I've seen him mean. He was being nice, if you ask me." I couldn't tell who I liked seeing getting chewed out more, now, Gilbert or Alfred. Both were spectacles to behold, as Alfred snorted and folded his arms. His pouty attitude didn't last long, as Gilbert got right back down to playing with Louis. Alfred eventually joined back in, this time more careful (until he tussled with Gilbert. He was a tad more rough with him, though not enough to endanger Louis). The three all went between wrestling, talking, and messing with some spoons (I guess they hadn't any toys for the boy?), and I watched, occasionally finding Eliza spying on them from time to time.

A couple hours or so later, the cook in the kitchen announced that the meal was ready. Though, none of us heard her call. We had all fallen asleep. I know for a fact that I had fell out first. I assume that Alfred had clambered onto the couch and stuck his knees into the side of my leg, falling asleep soon after. Gilbert and Louis were simply passed out in a pile on the floor, the baby raised up with each breath the man below him took.

Eliza gently woke each of us up, restating that our meal was ready. I rubbed my eyes, thanking her, then took my spot at the table. Alfred lay on the couch for a few more minutes, as if recovering from his coma.

Gilbert struggled with a very hungry, angry baby, explaining that he had to go change the crazed child before he could join us. It was around then that Alfred realized exactly what was going on, so he jumped up and took his own seat, next to mine.

On the table, I reviewed the small banquet ahead of us. In the center, I assumed was the Rakott krumpli, and beside it, was... Macaroni and cheese? One look at Alfred, who was practically bouncing in his seat, and I knew that this was his handy work. We had a culturally diverse meal ahead of us, what with clean slices of bread to dip in a spiced vinaigrette, and the smell of some German pastries coming from the kitchen (I knew they were German, because Gilbert wouldn't have had it any other way).

Elizaveta took her seat, as Gilbert dashed back in. He plopped the fussing baby in his seat, presenting him with a pre-made plate, before sighing and sitting next to his beloved chef. Louis dug his small hands into his food, greedily grabbing it up to his mouth. "He was that hungry?" Eliza asked, staring at the boy in amazement. Gilbert laughed, "He always is when you're cooking!" Eliza grinned, shaking her head. She had forgotten about her guests, causing her to gasp as she looked our way. "Oh! Sorry, you two go ahead and get yours!"

Alfred quietly cheered, and I silently joined him. Despite the odd time for dinner that these two European escapees (as I called them oh so affectionately) ate dinner, they could really serve it well. We all got our plates, and dug in with as much enthusiasm as Louis had.

I pushed past the door, stumbled right back in, Alfred close behind. I braced myself on the wall, chuckling.

"Yo, tipsy," Alfred scooted past me. He stopped, waving a hand in front of my face. "You good?"

"Quite alright, Alfred. Now move." He did as I said, and I made my way to my favorite seat in the house: the floor in front of the couch. It was a spot from my time with Veña, comforting in its own slightly creepy way. The sun had set by the time that we had left Eliza and Gilbert's place. After dinner, the lot of us has settled down for a few games and drinks (Alfred had become pouty again, as he refused to drink because of his age. Silly boy! There are no laws here!), and as Gilbert had walked Louis home (don't worry, he hadn't really drank at all, hardly enough to get buzzed. By the time he was bringing the tired boy home, he was more than sober) Alfred was walking me home. And by that, I mean impatiently waiting for me to unlock the door.

"Why are you on the floor?" Alfred asked, standing over me. He was still in a bit of a sour mood.

"I like the floor, Alfred." He scoffed at my reply, and took his normal seat. There was no movie. There was no joking around. Alfred put his head back, and shut his eyes. But not to sleep.

I watched him, my fuzzy mind and blurry eyes trying to guess exactly what was going through his head. Pulling myself from the floor, I sat unevenly on the higher surface of the couch (well, I was halfway on the couch. It counts).

"I'm going to tell you a story." He murmured. "And you better not remember it. I was waiting for you to get drunk so that I could, you know."

I nodded. "It makes sense, Alfred. You are very clever, more clever than you look."

"Yeah." He shoved my comment aside. "I'm serious, you better not remember this. I just... I wanna get it off of my chest. I'm sure you got secrets you're hiding from me, right? Yeah, I doubt you moved outta your town just because you hate hicks."

I chuckled, shrugging. "You'd be surprised what hate can do, Al."

Alfred raised his chin, looking at me in a rather blank yet inquisitive way. "I'd be surprised, you're right. Anyway, I guess I'll just... Spill my guts."

Cool air pulsed through the glowing night, passing between the fingers of the driver of this large black SUV. Beside him, sat a slightly younger man, who peered out the window. His nerves burned bright red, and beneath his skin, his heart beat furiously. The passing trees, flying houses, bundled stars all blurred as they went by, unfamiliar and anxious.

"Al, you haven't said a thing this whole time. You sure about this?"

The young man didn't look at the shadowed face of the man who was speaking to him, for the details and structure, all hidden and muddy, we're just as unfamiliar to him as the neighborhood they were passing through. "Yeah. I told you I was old enough to start making my share, didn't I? I told you... I'm strong, I've been working for this for a while."

"You're only fifteen." The driver pointed out, a note of concern in his voice. His passenger didn't reply.

The two drove on. Where they were, lived the hardly well off, the idiots of the lower middle class. The idle class, as some called them. These people here, the muddled youth especially... They didn't fear the evil that lurked in the streets.

The dark car pulled to a stop at an intersection, the driver sighing. "Al, this is your stop. No rides from strangers, got it?" Alfred cracked up, wiping his hand over his face. "Yeah, I got it, bro. Meet ya on the corner of Walnut and Lark, right?"

"Right." Alfred opened his door, and hopped down. The bitter autumn wind, scented with decay, danced across his skin. His jacket was pulled tighter around his frame, and the young, young man went on his way.

He walked for about a block or so, until he found his targets. "Margie, Gabby, Summer!" He greeted in the most genuine manner he could. "Glad to see you guys didn't fake out on me!"

The three girls, each with a bag in hand, quietly cheered upon seeing their dearest teenage crush. Gabby was Alfred's age, while Margie and Summer were a year or so younger. "Like we would!" Gabby scoffed, pulling Alfred in for a hug. The other girls muttered something between each other, then turned back to Alfred. "So... We going, or?" The girls all nodded together.

"Fuck yeah," Summer smirked, her teeth adorned with colorful braces. "I ain't stickin' around here no more."

Gabby snorted, and Margie gasped. "That's a bad fucking word, Summer!" Alfred laughed along with them, but he cut his voice off as he saw headlights. "Come on, guys, we aren't even going to make it down town if we keep on like this! Someone'll catch us."

Gabby and her gang all agreed, and the four moved along on quiet feet, soft voices. "You said you had a ride for us?" One asked. Alfred nodded. "Sure do."

"And you said we'll never see this hell hole again?" Another demanded. "Not if we make it to the city." Alfred promised. A bit of sweat wandered across his face, down his neck, beyond his shirt. It was so cold.

"So," Gabby prompted between smacks of gum in her mouth. "You ain't trickin' us, Al?" Alfred turned around, shrugging in a cool manner. "If you guys wanna go home, run along. I'm not dragging little bitches into something they'll just whine about." All three girls looked incredulous. They all denied their bitchiness, to which Alfred just shrugged again. "Prove it." With new determination, the corner of Lark and Walnut appeared quicker than suspected. And after a few minutes, so did a familiar set of headlights.

"This is our ride!" Alfred announced, and the girls beside him continued their nervous, excited chatter. Oh, how thrilled these little things were to be escaping their school, their parents, all of the bullshit that everyday life had to throw their way.

The SUV stopped, and the four piled in. "Now, girls, we aren't gonna be able to go straight to the city." The driver began to explain and Alfred started to fidget. "We gotta take a way around the city, then another person'll drop you off there, alright? I hope you guys understand, sorry it's gotta be like that. Just dangerous, y'know?"

Gabby nodded. "Oh yeah, we get it. Cops and shit, right? God, that would suck, if they caught us."

Summer snorted, playfully nudging her friend. "Like they would! Al and his bro know what's up."

Margie glanced out the window as they drove off. "My mom would fucking kill me if we got caught, and I'm already dead as it is! So... I'd be double dead or something. Better not get caught."

"We won't." Alfred reassured them.

And, as fate would so kindly have it, they did not get caught. The driver knew all the back roads, all of the lightless streets and lifeless paths. Soon enough, after some banter and chatter, they arrived at their destination. A familiar house, Alfred noticed.

"This is where the train stops!" The driver announced, pulling his own car in beside another. The girls eagerly shoved themselves out of the car, regrouping on one side. Alfred stood close, but not to close. He could hear an exchange on the other side of the car, and he listened intently.

"Three of 'em, eh? With your boy, no less! Good one, good one... Here's your pay. I'll tell you if I need your help again, yeah? And give Al my best."

Another man clambered from the passenger seat of the unknown car. Alfred backed up a few paces, but held his gaze steady. "Car's all yours, girls," he beckoned. The girls, suddenly a bit more unsure, looked at Alfred for reassurance. He nodded. "Yeah, this is our ride to the city, guys." Summer shrugged. "What the hell, we've been waiting for this for our entire lives, guys!" She dashed forward, dragging Margie with her. The man nodded to himself, stalking back to his seat in the car. Gabby stuck behind, giving Alfred a look he wasn't sure he liked. She glanced at her all too eager friends, and scoffed. "They don't have half a damn clue what this is even about." She muttered, drawing a little closer. "Too bad I do, though." She lunged, embracing Alfred with her surprisingly strong arms. Her own lips melted with his, and Alfred tried his best to return the favor. This was... What it was about, right?

The kiss was disgusting and sloppy, it tasted like old gum, and Alfred quickly decided that this wasn't what any of this was about. He shoved Gabby with a brute force, slamming a knee into her gut as he drug a hand across his mouth. "G-get offa me, bitch." He spat. "Save yourself f-for some other asshole, yeah?"

Gabby wheezed, having fallen to the ground. The driver of this little spectacle approached, and saw the scene. "She getcha, boy?" He cackled. "Gotta watch out for the witches, I say!" Alfred started to shake. The driver hoisted Gabby up, ignoring her tiny coughs. "Ah, you'll be fine. He didn't hit ya, not hardly."

As the car door slammed, Alfred dashed off, passed his brother, passed the foul taste in his mouth, passed the ache in his mind, slamming the door to his room behind him.

His brother stood outside of the door, placing a hand on the old, sealed wood. "You did good today, Al. But I told you. You're too young for the trade... Kinda like how I was, I guess. We have icecreams in the fridge if you want one." And then he walked off, not realizing that Alfred was taking little dabs of hand sanitizer, spreading them across his teeth, over his tongue, inside his cheek, just to rid himself of the flavor, the flavor of youth.

He would surely enjoy an ice cream afterwards, though. It was a deserved prize, Alfred reckoned. This was what he wanted. This was his life. This was where he would stay, in the heart of Atlanta's love, it's trade.

Yes, he agreed with himself, poisoning his mouth. This was what it was about.


	10. Chapter 10: Eat Your Heart Out, Eliza

**A/N: Woah. Another update? Awesome, right? Yeah, well, there's not a lot to mention this time around (except for the fact that I thought I would have finished this story by summer's end but here comes school again and this story is only roughly half way done? Oh well.)**

 **Once again, thanks to everyone who's following and who's favorited this story! I REALLY appreciate the support!**

 **Oh, and one last thing- I'm totally writing a new story, gonna upload the first chapter today. It's about 2P! Prussia, and some kinda crazy circumstances...**

 **Enjoy~**

 _ **Ch. 10 Eat Your Heart Out, Eliza**_

Through the leaves, creeped an unseen enemy, a furious, terrifying foe. His hands grazed the branches of the thick forest trees, and his breath took in the sticky humid air. The heat was almost too much to bear, but this young soul had grown more than used to the constant swelter of this lush, hellish place.

Vietnam.

Helicopters blasted the trees with thick, unnatural winds, and dogs barked and scattered the native wildlife. A pair of eyes set upon this landing, the whole grand entrance to Hell. The young man quickly swooped away, back into the blister of the jungle. The jungle, where mud devours whole men and plants tear flesh like they had teeth. Not only that, but the men native to this land were just as ferocious as their home. Suited and thriving in this place, they used it all to their advantage. They all snuck around, set traps, and waited for their foes to step into their ambushes.

And, as evening drew close, one was stepping right into this young man's trap...

Alfred swore fiercely, his dog had run off. In the most dangerous place in the entire world, as it felt, of course his dog had run off. "Jake!" He muttered angrily, snapping his fingers. The dog had caught scent of something, and had to give chase. He snapped again, hoping the dog would respond, but instead it barked excitedly. "I found something!" The animal seemed to be yelling. "Come quick, you need to see!"

Glancing back at his base, Alfred shook his head. The boys waved him on, go get your dog! You'll need him! At least the dog was close, Alfred sighed. He peered around once last time, then headed off, trying to be as quiet as possible, as quick too.

And it didn't take him long to find the dog. Only about five minutes of trailing the dog's barks, pushing past overgrown flora, praying to God that you didn't just hear a tiger or some shit, and there the mutt was, standing like he was doing something greater than all else had before him. "Jake!" Alfred hissed. "Get over 'ere!" The dog ignored him, taking off from his spot again. Alfred sighed, deciding this time to run after the dog. He'd get him much faster if he didn't...

Fall...

Into a trap...

A spiked pit.

Alfred nearly bit his tongue off, chin slamming against the edge of the pit. His hands scrambled over the ledge, just barely finding a purchase to hold onto before he slipped to his death. His boots scrambled against the wall, kicking him higher and higher in desperation. One last kick, and a bit back scream as the dirt began to crumble beneath him, and Alfred was free. "Fuck the dog," he panted. "Fuck this," Laying on his back, breath quick and panicked, Alfred took a few seconds, looking to the stars.

And just barely avoid the machete aimed at his head. Alfred rolled to the side, observing the weapon that just missed a direct hit to his face. It was lodged in the dirt, and just ahead of it... Someone Alfred never wanted to meet in a quickly darkening forest. Mud and dirt was smeared across this man's skin, making him far less noticeable against the other dark colors of the forest. Even his hair was caked with mud. But his piercing violet eyes were not hidden in the slightest, and it nearly took Alfred's breath away.

The man lunged forwards, snatching up his machete with a practiced hand. He sunk the weapon into a tree trunk use where Alfred had been standing seconds before, and jerked it out with a sinister squeal of metal. Alfred had wide eyes, and his hand flew to his side, trying to retrieve his gun from its holster. But in the time it took for him to uselessly fiddle with his weapon, the machete had been dragged across his face, knocking him backwards, into the dirt.

Dazed, it was all Alfred could do to look up at his attacker, who stood over him with a grin. "You made a mistake coming here, stupid American."

Alfred returned the grin, raising his gun. "You made a mistake fucking with a guy with a gun! Especially an American!"

...

"And then, BLAM!" Alfred exclaimed. "I blew your head clean off!" His shit faced grin gave me the inclination to dare Alfred to do just that- I'd like to see him try. He looked far too soft to be able to win a fight against me... Mind my boastfulness, but I can assure anyone that I've dealt my fair share of ass-kickings, and suffered them too.

"Did you now?" I asked, surely looking unimpressed. "And what happened to the little kids running around in Vietnam? I was promised baby wars, you know."

Alfred shrugged, still grinning. "Bah, I tossed that idea! I'm not as gruesome as you. Imagine that, a baby me blowing a baby you's head off with a pistol! Pfft, ridiculous. If that's your idea of writing, you'd make a sucky author."

There we have it, folks. My writing career, shattered, with one sentence. Damn that man.

...

Music. The soothing sound of melody, intertwined with a harmony that forms a craft so unique and inspiring to us as people that... It influences nearly everything... Can be found almost anywhere... (For an example of a place it cannot be found, see the vacuum of space)

I am proud to admit that I was a musician at one point. Ashamed to admit that I had to leave it behind. Every time the strums of my beloved trade pass over my ear, I become a haunted, lost, starving man. I can feel my one hand slide down the neck of the instrument, the other gently tugging at the strings, strumming them one at a time, two, three, generating my own songs and flow... Something that no other living person has ever heard.

It fills me with an incredible passion, what can I say? Even now, lacking any instrument at all, I can still feel the bow digging deep into the strings, ripping forth a rugged, delicate noise that no other stringed instrument could hope to replicate... The bass.

Contrabass.

Bass-fiddle.

Double bass.

What have you, it's a violin that ate too many vegetables and now look what happened to it! Gargantuan! Additionally, all the strings were reversed! And who in their right mind would even imagine holding the thing with their shoulders, their chins? Only a fool would ever dream of such a thing.

I would bet a dollar that some fool is dreaming of that right now. He's not me, but he's someone. How do I know this fool is not me? Because I know that basses and violins have entirely different body shapes; violins have semi-circles at the base of the neck, while basses dip inwards.

No, I merely yearn for the strum and kick of the instrument I do so adore. One that is so harshly overlooked at that, ha! But, when one such wooden marvel steps up to center stage, takes a bow before the judges, then performs a violin solo at normal pitch, what happens? Oh, a great roar of amazement, and look how funny that instrument appears! What a wacky thing that is, and God, what else can you do on that thing?! Promises of a greater tomorrow, of what could be, of what never actually happens.

Basses can do whatever they like, but the lime light will never be theirs, not really, anyway. There will always be a singer, a saxophone, a violin or a cello, to somehow cloak this mighty instrument in their small shadow. And that's the life we live, as players of this instrument, the life that I chose willingly... Perhaps I drew a strong connection with the beauty because of that reason, that almost outcast feeling.

And how odd of an outcast we are... The orchestra sounds outright hollow when there are no supporting undertones.

It's funny, really... My mother hated the instrument I chose. She snapped at me, hissing and bitching that I picked the most expensive instrument possible!

I quickly retorted that no, if I wanted to pick a really expensive instrument, I would've gone to band.

... Long story short, I ended up not having a bass of my own, until a few years after actually picking up the instrument for the first time. I had to pay for it myself, and being on fifteen at the time, and jobless, one might wonder how?

Momma certainly didn't get any pocket change out for me. Oh no, I made the easiest decision of my entire life that day: I had money that was being saved to get me a car, and instead of driving such a car to school, apparently I was going to be driving this wooden thing to school instead. Worked out about as well as it may come off as, my mother was absolutely enraged. I blew a good seven grand on that instrument, and what the fuck will it do for me?

Well, mother, perhaps it will soothe my teenage angst, constantly resurfacing daddy issues, and pent up, reasonless rage? Just a guess on my part...

I practiced everyday. Or, everyday that I could. Sometimes I took breaks to rest my mind and my hands... It's a very involved thing, regardless of how it looks. And I swore to myself, I would play a solo for my mother at one of those rinky dinky school concerts something that would change her mind about my instrument...

Basically, I imagined she interpreted the poor thing as the fat idiot of the orchestra, and I mean the fat idiots from cartoons who end up hitting their Pa over the head with a mallet, then getting whapped themselves, only to apologize and get hit again. Kind of offensive, I thought.

So, what solo did I pick? I had so many choices, so many wonderful options to go for... The bass might look large and clunky, but I swear, in the right hands, it is the most versatile instrument a person could have.

But I ramble. It was a trick question, actually, I didn't pick a solo at all. I picked a cello concerto... Vivaldi's Allegro in G minor, for two cellos. A fast paced and rigorous adventure that features a duet, and a supporting orchestra. My partner was a long time friend, I've mentioned her before, though briefly... A stunning cello player, if anything at all. Just the kind that makes you almost want to dive across the border, into the dark side, leaving your own instrument to rot.

As tempting as that was, I refused. The bass was a perfect fit for me, and always will be. My body is simply well suited for it, what with my larger figure and whatnot.

Now, you must be dying to know how the concert went! Bah, I bet my mother swooned over the glorious swooping tones of the bass melting with the delightful chords of the cello!

... Not quite. I'm sure she would've, though.

My friend and I, we worked on that duet with a small group of people who desperately believed they had talent just like we did, and we worked for a year and a half on that piece. By the time that the concert rolled around, we were so far beyond the level of playing it took for us to play Vivaldi's Allegro in G Minor for Two Cellos, that...

It never happened.

The concert never occurred. My mother never heard a note of that duet. I dropped my instrument, ditched any hope of talent I ever had, left it all behind.

Perhaps... Basses, myself, we are meant to stay in the shadow.

...

Alfred is a liar, I know this to be true.

His tale told, enlightening my drunken ears, sounded riveting, alive with the words he used. He was into it, so into his story, with such a convicted expression you would imagine he was talking about the scorn committed on his father, how he must seek revenge.

But I know he's a liar, a good, practiced one. I also know that he definitely has a writer's wit and pace of thought. When he gets serious with his words, it's genuinely impressive.

So with these talents, and a precise choice of timing (he stated that he wanted me drunk, but little did he know that I wasn't nearly intoxicated enough to forget such a story), he created a false tale about his past. And why? All for what?

I believe there are a couple reasons: He wants the truth of his past hidden well. Or, perhaps, he wants my sympathy.

I can understand the first one, but the second? If that is his goal, it has fallen out, because of my discovery.

Now, before I go on, allow me to explain how I know he is a liar. It's quite simple, really.

First off, I've seen the sex trade that rules the dark corners of Atlanta. It's one of the hazards of living here, and the most revolting practice modern man perpetrates. I would never become involved with it... Only the desperate, disgusting, and perverted people do. Alfred is none of these, so how exactly would he have gotten into it? He also mentioned that he was fifteen at the time, and I know that no fifteen year old would just be allowed to run with the traders... Not for long, anyway, he would've become a slave himself at that age.

It just doesn't add up.

I've been thinking over this for a little over a month now, and it just doesn't add up.

Another point that backs my liar theory: Alfred lied to my face today.

He claimed not to know a man, but it was clear that that man knew him. And this fact only makes things more confusing, because if Alfred is who I think he is, he has no right knowing Francis.

...

Francis. Oh, Francis. I've only met him a select few times (perhaps because the only reason I know him in the first place is because he is Gilbert's friend). He's respectable enough, I suppose. He, at the very least, knows how to care for his hair.

Here's what makes him a truly interesting man, however: He used to be a meth head (or was he a crack addict? I can't remember which).

As far as I know, he just got in with the wrong crew from the very start, and things just kept getting worse and worse, until his family cut him off entirely, and forced him to go to rehab. The poor guy spent a few years there...

When he got out, he only kept a few friends from his past life, one of which was Gilbert. He got married, saved up enough for a good house, and as far as I know he was planning on having kids. Unfortunately, his wife died in a car accident, leaving Francis a bit stranded.

Francis' family relations have gotten better, I can tell, because I remember the first time I met the guy. He was a complete mess, an absolute wreck. Everyone thought he would turn back to drugs, but Francis turned himself around and shocked everyone. He got back with his family, and now he babysits for his sisters on weekends from time to time.

His story is an odd one, I'll give him that. But what's even weirder, is that when Gilbert and Eliza managed to convince Alfred (who then convinced me) to go with them on a trip to his house, I could see the recognition in Francis' eyes. The way he tried to hide his excitement at someone familiar returning after a bout of being long gone. I know the look, I recognized it.

And though I feel like I should confront Alfred on his lies, and demand the truth, I also feel something tranquil about letting this one slide...

The reason we were visiting Francis is fairly straight forward: He wanted Gilbert to come help him set up his pool for the approaching summer months (Francis has this small below ground pool... It's for his cousins, and for the Nazi that drops by without warning every so often, I've been told). The extra set of hands (Francis refused to let me or Eliza help out) outside in the already burning heat was much appreciated as far as I could tell. They were outside, and I was inside, enjoying the soft colors of abstract paintings and the odd shapes of some weird modern art that decorated the main room.

Eliza merely leaned back in a chair, enjoying the tranquility and silence while it lasted. Which I find odd, she equally enjoys the chaos and the quiet.

Just as I was about to drift into a state of utter contentedness, an unexpected voice broke through my serenity. "You like him, don't you?"

My eyelids slowly parted, to reveal my scrutinizing gaze. I turned to stare at Elizaveta, who's face was plastered with a smirk.

'Shit,' I thought. 'She thinks she's got me, that's not good.'

"I knew it." She puffed her chest out proudly, leaning back again without the slightest let up of that damned smirk... It's identical to Gilbert's, I now realize.

"Knew what?" I scoffed, narrowing my eyes.

"It!" Eliza declared, snapping right back at me as though she had never entered that relaxed state at all. "He's cute, you know, I think you got lucky."

I felt a tremendous sigh shake my chest. "Eliza, I beg your pardon-"

"You're not denying it!" She cheered, and my mouth fell open a tad. I didn't have a response to that. Mostly because I already knew that denying these kinds of accusations did nothing but solidify the other's argument, for some odd reason.

With nothing more than a grunt, I decidedly turned to face the other direction. Perhaps avoiding this woman would bring success...?

No, it did not. I felt her hands dip through my hair, and before I could protest, she had already begun to braid together my long locks.

"Oh come off it, Ivan! Ever since I've known you, all you do is pretend to dislike nearly everyone. Now this one random guy just shows up, and you willingly allow him to live in your house? Sleep in your bed? Without so much as a genuine protest? You cant throwing me off, Ivan. Try as much as you like, I've seen it all before."

'Shit,' I thought. 'She's got me.'

"And, you're going to love this, I've seen it in Gilbert, no less. That man nearly had me convinced of his complete indifference towards me- or so he thought. You should've seen him melt when I first asked him on a date. It was adorable. And then, with our first-"

"Alright!" I cleared my throat, cutting Eliza off. "I've-! I've heard enough, thank you..."

Eliza chuckled, and went on. Only this time, gentler, more sincere. "At least make a friend, Ivan. I'm sick of seeing you alone all the time. Do something nice with him."

After a few moments of hesitation, I managed to murmur, "Like what?"

Hands finishing off the braid, Eliza pulled back, eyes bright with humor. "Whatever you'd like, Ivan."

From outside, we both heard splashing, yelling, general rough and playful behavior... And then, we were stormed by two hooligans, with an amusing chorus of a distraught French man yelling for both to get their soaking asses out of his house.

But just before the two shoved each other out, Alfred glanced over at me. "Woah," he cocked his head to the side, a curious grin on his lips. "Eliza braided your hair?" Snorting, he wasn't quite ready for Gilbert to nab him in a headlock, and drag him back out the door.

Turning to look back at Eliza, I gave her a somewhat tired expression. She shrugged, and said, "You can't hate 'em, so you gotta love 'em, right?"

...

Goddamnit, Eliza.


End file.
